His Soul
by Ashley A
Summary: Having survived the battle of Badon Hill, Lancelot, in desperate love with Queen Guinevere, takes the chance to go on a dangerous mission.
1. Default Chapter

Author's note: I own no one. Copyright infringement is never intended.

A year after the battle at Baddon Hill, Lancelot (who has survived) is in desperate love with Queen Guinevere. Taking the chance to leave on a dangerous mission, will he find his way back home?

Rated Pg for now.

Pairing: L/G, A/G

This one's gonna be a monster, folks. Bear with me.

Feedback is welcome!

Enjoy.

**One.**

Coughing up copious amounts of blood, the dark haired knight moaned as he was carried on swift feet to the darkened chamber, where hushed voices and soft movements caused him to cry out in confusion.

A cool hand was on his brow, and he relaxed slightly, gaping at the pain still present in his chest.

_Someone has to hold him…we have to pull the arrow out._

_We'll do it._

The wounded knight vaguely felt the pressure of hands on his arms and legs, and then a bolt of anguish so severe it felt as if his heart had exploded into dust inside his body.

He bucked, trying to get free of the pain, and suceeding in opening one eye.

Colors whirled bright and fast, and the ground was suddenly there, blessedly chilly under his hot cheek.

**One year later.**

The ramparts at the edge of the fortress carried their new sigul at last- the ancient cross and the eagle that made up the banner of King Artorius Castus of Britain.

A lone knight, minus his battle gear, sat at the edge of the wall, hanging his feet over the side.

It wasn't the most respectful of gestures, but no one was there to see him do it.

And frankly, even if they had been, he wouldn't have cared.

The entire village and Keep were busy preparing for the upcoming wedding, and broody knights had no place inside the walls on this day.

Flowers festooned the entire place, and their smell was making the knight somewhat queasy. He also knew he was being childish, and yet that fact pleased him secretly.

He had known this day was going to come from the moment they had pulled Guinevere out of the dank prison they had found her in, and he had seen the way Arthur's whole expression had changed when he met her eyes.

What he hadn't known was how much it would truly break him.

Had he known, he wouldn't have stayed.

**Two months previous.**

"…well, man, what say you?"

Lancelot stared at Arthur, a faux joy on his weathered face, a true grief in his soul.

"I say that it's been too long in coming," he answered finally, and his friend cracked a smile at last.

"I was worried you wouldn't think it a matter important enough to bother with," Arthur said, and Lancelot laughed.

"Arthur, you are already joined. I don't know why you insist on doing this," the younger knight answered.

"Because, my friend, It would do the people good to see their King and Queen truly united, in front of God, and the whole of Britain. It is a gesture of faith, from both of us, for all Britons and for the good of the populace."

Lancelot hesitated. He faced away from Arthur, thinking carefully. _It's now or never…tell him you're leaving._

"Arthur, I," he started, and turned back to the other man, who had stepped up next to him.

"Will you stand with me?" Arthur asked in a quiet, solemn voice. Lancelot's throat closed on the statement he had ready to spout out.

"You are my brother, Lancelot, and the only thing I have left like a family. So I must ask you, will you stand at my side when I marry Guinevere?"

_Oh God. Oh God, not this._

"You honor me, Arthur. I would be remiss not to be there."

A huge smile burst over Arthur's stubbled face, and Lancelot's heart shredded at the sight of it.

Clapping the younger man on his shoulder, Arthur grinned again.

"You honor me, my friend. I will tell my lady, she will be most pleased."

He left the hall, striding purposefully toward the yard, where he knew Guinevere to be practicing her archery.

Lancelot sat bonelessly in the edge of a large open window, staring at the tops of the trees blowing gently in the spring breeze.

_Aye, my brother, I will stand with you, and listen as you pledge your troth to the woman I love._

**Present.**

A great commotion disturbed Lancelot from his wall-top thoughts, and he turned in time to see Guinevere come out onto the walk, her cheeks flushed with either exertion or anger, he couldn't tell.

"I am no maid…I do not understand why these women do not hear me on this," she muttered angrily, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

Lancelot quirked a half smile at her consternation.

"My lady, are you well?" he asked, and she jumped, noticing him for the first time.

"Oh, I…I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were here," she stammered, a blush coloring her cheeks. The simple long men's tunic and riding pants she wore were covered in dust, and her hair was bound tightly to the back of her neck. A small dagger was tucked into a sheath she wore at her wrist.

He had never seen anything so beautiful.

Sighing, he stood, executing a small bow.

"I shall leave you to your privacy, lady," he said, and as he made to pass her, she put up a hand, stopping him by pressing it to his chest.

"No…it's alright, stay, please…Lancelot," she said, his name escaping her lips in a puff of air. He halted his motion, her hand staying on his chest, the heat of the palm echoing through his body.

Their eyes met, and traveled together down to the spot where she was touching him, just underneath his heart.

"Does it still ache?" she whispered.

"Everyday," he answered truthfully. "But more so at certain times."

"Oh…I have a potion that could ease that…my father's people were expert healers. You should have told me earlier," she answered, not moving her hand.

"I think no potion could ease this ache," he said, wincing slightly as her eyes widened, sadness spilling into them like wine into a goblet.

"You said you wouldn't," she echoed his sigh. He closed his eyes, not willing to make himself look at her.

"I must. It kills me to see you here, now, knowing what's coming, what the future holds," he answered miserably.

"The future holds nothing, Lancelot, but my destiny as Queen of Britain, and Arthur's wife," she murmured back. "You know it is the only way."

"You think I've forgotten that? That I can't have you? That I have to listen to him tell me everyday how much he loves you, how it was God, or fate, or whoever, that brought him to you? That it was because of you that I lived to stay with him? Do you think I enjoy hearing my heart whisper to me to take you and leave, not caring who we hurt? _I love him, _Guinevere, but gods help me, I love you more."

Her lip was quivering, but her eyes remained dry. She clutched at the rough linen of her shirt, hands shaking at his words, and as Lancelot stepped close to her, he realized it was Arthur's shirt she wore.

"What do you want me to say? We've been over this. My duty, my charge, is to my land, and my people. Arthur can lead them to greatness, and he needs me, Lancelot. I cannot abandon him for the folly of love," she told him, her teeth clenched to keep from crying out his name.

"We cannot have love, Lancelot. The land already possesses us. I have nothing left to give you."

"How did this happen?" he hissed, voice cracked and weak. "How did we let it?"

She had no answer for him.

He whirled, disgusted with himself, and decended the stairs back down to the main hall, leaving her behind, her thin arms wrapped about herself a poor replacement for his.

That night, the entire village and Keep turned out to celebrate the upcoming nuptuals. Lancelot was briefly cheered to see his old friend Bors, who had spent some months traveling south after his time for Rome was done.

His entire family in attendance, Bors looked every inch the retired knight, still burly and tough, but calmer in effect and bearing than the younger knight had ever seen him.

"Hey, you! Broody bastard!" Bors greeted him loudly, calling across the great hall, shouting to be heard over the music and laughter. "Looking as tired and skinny as ever, boy," he added, handing Lancelot a full cup of wine, clinking it to his.

"Bors," Lancelot had laughed to see him, "I see Fenora has kept you too busy to put on all that retirement weight you so fondly talked about."

Bors shook his head, smiling wistfully at the thought.

"Aye, my boy, aye. Too busy traveling and dragging the bastards everywhere. How fare you?" He turned a seasoned eye on his friend, pulling him to a quiet corner of the hall.

"I fare well, and I thank you for asking. How are Fenora and the children?" Lancelot asked, avoiding Bors' real question.

"As wild a bunch as ever. And very good," he answered, leaning into the younger man. "But I can see some things have changed…although not for the good, yes?"

"What do you mean?" Lancelot asked, not meeting the other man's eyes.

"I saw the way you looked at them when they came in," Bors stated plainly. He never was one for beating around the bush. "When did you start loving her, boy?"

"I take offense at that, Bors," Lancelot snapped. "You know not of what you speak." He drained his cup, setting on a nearby table.

"If you'll excuse me, I have duties to attend to before this night comes to a close. I am still captain of the King's guard," he spit, turning on his heel and striding away.

Bors watched him go, noting the look of sadness that had envaded his young friends eyes.

What bothered him even more than the sadness was the emptiness he saw in their brown depths- the same emptiness he had seen when greeting Guinevere earlier.

**Four days later.**

Arthur, newly (re)married King of Britain, was alone in his hall. Alone with his thoughts, and his maps, and the Round Table.

He gazed about him, noting the low burning coals in the large, round brazier in the center of the table. The atmosphere was comfortable, calm. A mockery of his current feelings.

Saxons. Again, Saxons raiding from the North. Had they not had enough the first time?

Arthur supposed that no good commander would ever give up a conquest, not if they were determined to succeed. He knew he wouldn't.

Trouble was, he wasn't sure if he could spare who he would like to spare for this mission.

He had almost lost Lancelot once. He shuddered to think of it happening again.

So he bent over his maps, and tried to think of another way.

The door banged open, allowing entrance of his four remaining closest friends and confidants.

Gawain and Galahad, joking together, hailed him in the middle of their own good natured argument.

Bors and Lancelot, looking slightly angry at each other, simply made their way to empty seats without saying a word to Arthur.

"Well met, knights," Arthur said finally, looking up. They all smiled at him, save Lancelot, whose eyebrows were drawn together, his lips pinched tightly. Arthur took silent note of how black the circles were under his friend's eyes, and how gaunt he looked.

"Arthur, what say you? What is the news from the North?" Gawain asked.

"The same news as before. Saxon incursions, war and pillaging. Except this time, they will meet with a far more united resistance."

At the word Saxon, the four knights groaned aloud. Bors spit into the glowing coals, causing a hissing sound.

"Again? Well, never say die, right, boys?" the others nodded. "What do you require of us, Arthur?"

"I need a small band of men, lead by one of you, to travel North, and see how far and how vast the damage is. Report back in a weeks time, and I will have the main army ready and waiting. I have a scout, Amaidis, ready to go. I only require one more man…"

He looked around at each of them, and knew each one would gladly go. But…

"I will do it, Arthur."

The King turned his head toward the sound of the voice he hadn't wanted to hear. He put out a hand.

"Are you certain, Lancelot? You have many important duties here…as captain of my guard, it would be your responsibility to protect the fortress and the Queen while I am gone," he said, trying to think of a way to dissuade his closest friend from doing this. He knew that Gawain or Bors would have readily volunteered, and while he did not want harm to come to any of his men, the idea of putting Lancelot in danger was a hideous one to his mind.

"Who better? I haven't had a mission away from the Wall since I was wounded…and besides, I have no little bastards who would miss me if I didn't return," Lancelot said wrily. Bors began to protest, but the younger knight waved him off.

"I would consider it an honor if you would allow me to go, my Lord," Lancelot added quietly, tilting his head toward Arthur in a gesture of loyalty and respect.

"Very well, then. Meet with Amaidis tonight. You leave at dawn," Arthur told him, his heart heavy.

After some light strategy discussion, Arthur dismissed the men for the evening, and they slipped out of the hall slowly, sensing a growing unease between the King and Lancelot.

At last the two men were alone.

Lancelot rose stiffly, his hand straying to his ribcage, the familiar ache flaring briefly. The scar would fade eventually, as all scars did, but he wasn't sure he wanted it to. He wanted to carry the memory of what he had done and why he had done it with him always, in case he never got to see her face again.

"Lancelot, will you stay a moment?" Arthur asked suddenly. The curly haired knight nodded, sitting back down. Surprising him, Arthur walked to him, and kneeled on the floor so his face was level with Lancelot's.

"Why do you do this, brother?" Arthur said. Misery was evident in his expression, and Lancelot was ashamed to be the cause of it.

_If only you knew my true desire, Arthur…would you be so quick to love me?_

"Because you need the most capable man, the best horseman, and the deadliest fighter. I am all of those things and more," the younger knight replied. He could have added _because I love your wife and I must leave before I shame us all, _but he knew it would be folly were he to do so.

"Lancelot…if you do this, you must promise me something," the King said.

"Aye, my Lord, whatever you wish."

"Do not die. The Queen would not take too kindly to me sending you to your death," Arthur said softly, his voice cracking slightly with the emotion of his words. Lancelot started, opened his mouth, then shut it, feeling like a gaping fish.

"And the truth is, my friend, you who know me best of all, I would not take it too kindly if you were to die, either," he added. "You must swear it to me, on our blood, that you will do nothing foolhardy or rash. Do you swear it?"

Lancelot sighed, grasping the King's forearm in a hard grip. His eyes burned and his stomach twisted at the love he saw shining from Arthur's eyes.

_I do not deserve him._

"I will do my duty, Arthur, and will do my best not to get killed," he answered. The King nodded, and stood, pulling Lancelot with him.

"I cannot do this without your support, Lancelot. With you at my side, I feel as if I can accomplish anything. I would deem to keep it so," he said, placing his hand warm and calloused on Lancelot's neck. The knight squeezed his eyes shut briefly, then opened them, smiling at his friend.

"You honor me. I shall do my best to keep our bargain."

"I would expect nothing less," the King answered, a grin breaking out on his stubbled face. His green eyes sparked in the dim firelight, and Lancelot's gut spasmed, as if an invisible hand had clenched it.

"I take my leave, Arthur. I will find Amaidis, and will be ready to depart in the morning."

"Get some sleep, my friend. You will probably not get much on the road," Arthur said, his attention gone back to his maps. Lancelot nodded, and strode toward the large doors.

"You as well, my Lord," he replied. Arthur was in his own world again, the firelight flickering on his armor like fairy lights.

Lancelot let the door swing shut behind him, collapsing against it. He slid his eyes shut, his mind resolute, unchanging.

He had made the right decision. He knew that the mission was a dangerous one, but it was the only way.

He was a knight, after all, and had served under one of the most famous, most feared leaders in Roman and Briton history. The infamous Sarmatian knights were not to be trifled with.

He knew also that if the only way to get the Queen out of his mind was to leave, then he would have to leave. And this was the perfect opportunity to do so.

Gods help him if he didn't do something. And soon.

He pushed away from the door at last, and trod with quick steps toward the stable, and the waiting scout.

**Tbc.**


	2. Chapter two

**Two.**

"What do you think you are doing?" the voice came soft in the darkness of the stables. Bent over at the waist retrieving some tack, Lancelot froze, then resumed his actions.

"I am readying my horse for my trip," he answered simply. The animal in question nickered softly at him, and he stroked its neck absently.

"Do not think I don't know why," Guinevere added, crossing the space between them, hands at her hips and hair flying wildly about her, as if she had run from the Keep to the stables.

"Whatever do you mean, lady?" the knight replied, a sigh escaping his lips. Turning to face her at last, he set his saddle down on one of the beams that ran the length of the room, the only thing that seperated them.

She was shocked at his appearance, and to her utter dismay, all her anger at him wilted like a dead flower.

Guinevere reached out a trembling hand, brushing it against his bearded cheek. He raised his own, capturing her palm against his face, and pressed a kiss to it. She squeezed her eyes shut, and a single tear escaped them.

"You look bad, Lancelot," she whispered. He laughed softly.

"Thank you, my lady. I don't feel myself, to be honest."

"You have an air of ghostlyness about you. It frightens me…and I am not easily frightened, as well you know," she told him, dropping her hand from his face. He picked it up between his, twining their fingers together.

"I am sorry, Guinevere. I don't mean to upset you. Since when has my appearance been something that you fear?" he joked, but she didn't smile.

"Why must you do this? Is it because of something I did? Or Arthur?" she asked him, her eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

"No, no, never that," he said, releasing her hand. Pacing away from her, he chewed on his lower lip, and lifted his horse's bridle from the wall where he had stored it.

Running his calloused fingers over the soft leather, he returned to the wooden beam that held his saddle, placing the bridle over it.

Raising his head, his dark eyes meeting hers, he told her truthfully, "I cannot be around you any longer. I am sore afraid that I will do something I will regret, and cause great hurt to a man I love more than my own life. I owe him everything, Guinevere. I cannot betray him. And yet, I cannot carry on as we have been, either. I love you as well…and I cannot find another way to reconcile the two things. Should I go on as I have, and live a mockery of a life, watching you with him? Or should I take you and leave, and destroy my truest friend in all the world? I can see no other way around it. I was ready to tell Arthur I was going to leave, when he asked me to stand with him at your wedding. I couldn't do it then. I have the perfect reason now…and my commander needs me to fulfill a mission. That is why I do this, my love."

His head dropped, sinking between his shoulder blades. His eyes closed. Gods damn him…damn Arthur for his noble streak the day they discovered the underground prison at the estate. Damn the day he saw Guinevere…and damn the day he realized he loved her.

Arthur needed her. He will always need her. She is the moon to his blinding sun, the water to his fire. They are a perfect match.

And yet…the knight forever standing in shadows needed some of her glow as well. She soothed him, two warriors born and bred, no need to speak. They read each other with simple gestures and looks. It was she that had saved him at Badon Hill, just as he had saved her moments before.

He thinks he loved her at that moment…and ever since. She had defended his dying body until the other knights could get there…until Arthur had killed the Saxon commander, and the battle had ended.

Their eyes had met, and she had wept over him, wept for his pain and his decision to risk his life to help her, and she had stayed with him, refusing to leave his sick bed, sharing nursemaid duties with Arthur. Her husband had been deeply touched by her devotion to his dear friend, never knowing Guinevere was falling for the blooded knight harder everyday.

When he at last had been able to rise from his sick bed, she had been there to help him take his first tottering steps. He had slung an arm around her shoulders, and she had taken his weight like he was a feather pillow. She was strong, and silent, and comfortable to him. He had not needed to tell her how he felt, she knew.

She had come to him a few nights later, and she had kissed him in the darkness of his room, both of them wanting more, but in the end Lancelot not allowing it to go any further.

He wanted her, he will want her to the end of his days. But every second that he thinks of her, Arthur's face swims into view, and he is sick with the wrongness of his desire.

In the stables, she leaned toward him, sinking her hand into his glorious hair. She lifted his chin with her hand, and his dark eyes shone in the depths of his gaunt face, the black smudges under his eyes looking strange against the whiteness of his skin.

"You must promise me one thing," Guinevere whispered to him, removing her hand from his hair. He cocked his head to one side, and raised an eyebrow.

"Don't get killed?" he asked, laughing softly. She looked surprised, and he smiled broadly. "Arthur asked the same thing of me. In fact, he said you would not look on it too kindly were he to send me to my death."

She giggled at this, the noise sounding harsh and out of place for the seriousness of the moment.

"You jest, Lancelot, but believe me, if you don't come back…I will haunt you beyond the grave," she said, the tears coming to her eyes at last.

"Gods forbid," he answered quietly. He groaned at the look in her eyes, and wrapped his arms around her small, strong frame. She nestled her nose in the nape of his neck, pressing a kiss to his throat. He rested his cheek on top of her head, breathing silently, impressing upon his mind the feel of her body against his.

He will never have her the way he wants, so this must be enough. The pliant yet hard muscles, her soft, round hips, her tiny hands in his, and most of all, her kind, generous, beautiful soul.

"I shall see you again, Guinevere, do not despair. You must be strong for Arthur. He needs you…and he loves you," he murmured into her hair. She jerked away from him suddenly, leaving him feeling cold and empty.

"I love you," she said angrily. "And you would do well to remember it. It is not a thing easily won." She sighed then, pushing her wild hair away from her face. "But you are right…he does need me, and he deserves my loyalty and respect. I…just be careful, for his sake, if not for mine. He would break were you to come to harm again."

"My lady commands," he replied, bowing to her. She gave him a curious look, between passion and annoyance.

"I will see you soon," she said, an order to his ears. Without waiting for an answer, she fled the stables, leaving him to answer to the darkness.

"I promise it."

Early the following morning, Arthur was waiting at the stables when Lancelot arrived. At his side was a young woman, shocking red hair piled on her head, an exotic look to her features.

"This is Amaidis, Lancelot. You and she will be in charge of the three men I send with you. Remember, one weeks time, or I will send the entire garrison after you."

Lancelot smiled at his captain, bowing low before him.

"Aye, Arthur, and it will be so," he said, clapping the other man on the shoulder. Arthur smiled tightly back at him, worry etching his features.

"Do not disappoint me, Lancelot. I will see you here in seven days."

"Indeed, Arthur."

He accepted the reins to his horse from the stable boy, and mounted up.

Amaidis, the young scout, mounted her horse alongside him.

The other three knights, young men on their first scouting trip, were on their horses and eager to do their duty, excited by the slight prospect of battle.

"Your lead, mistress scout," Lancelot said to her, and she gigged her horse, taking off at a fast trot, the other knights following her.

"Arthur," Lancelot called to his friend, as the sun broke over the horizon at last.

"Yes?" the King answered, turning back to face Lancelot's horse.

"…nothing," he said, not able to form the words _take care of Guinevere._

"Godspeed, Lancelot," Arthur hailed him as he galloped by, meaning to catch up to the rest of the party, who were through the gates at a fast clip.

"Merciful Father, keep him safe," Arthur whispered as he watched the small band ride north.

Tbc.


	3. Chapter three

Three.

Lancelot, the scout Amaidis, and the three knights rode fast and hard in silence until the sun was high above their heads. At last Lancelot pulled his horse up, stopping under a copse of trees that provided some shelter from the burning midday orb. The morning had been crisp and cool, but when one was wearing heavy metal armor and leather clothing, it tended to be hot no matter the weather.

"We will eat here, but quickly, fellows. We have a long ways to go yet," he told the oldest of the knights, Roland, a young Briton, who saluted and grinned at his commanding officer.

"Aye, sir. I'll let the others know," he said, and turned back to his comrades, his long brown plait swinging around him.

Lancelot sighed, sliding off his own mount. Resisting the urge to sleep, he pulled a hunk of bread and cheese out of his pack, and hunkered down close to the ground.

A moment later he was joined by the woman, Amaidis. She sank down next to him silently, and accepted his offer of food thankfully.

They ate sparingly, not wanting to waste any supplies. Lancelot had told Arthur they would be back within seven days, and that meant a lot of rough, long days in the saddle. He didn't relish spending too much time sleeping out of doors.

He looked at her when he felt the heat of her curious gaze on his face.

"Can I do something for you, Lady scout?" he asked finally.

"I can do all I require for myself, though I thank you, sir Knight," she replied, her strange accent hard to place.

"Where are you from, Amaidis?" he asked her, and she shrugged.

"All over, really. Born in Londoninium, lived in Rome, Greece, and now here. Why?" she answered, turning large green eyes on him. He realized with a start she was quite beautiful. Her spare leather overtunic and brown dyed wool pants belied a strength that reminded him intensely of Guinevere. He shut his eyes briefly, and shook his head.

"No reason. I am curious how a woman such as yourself ended up in Arthur's camp," he added. She blushed slightly at the King's name.

"He is a gift from the gods to all of Britain," she said softly. "I wish nothing but to fight for him, and to honor my home country."

"You are smitten with him," Lancelot laughed gently. When she sputtered, protesting, he held up a hand of truce. "I have seen it many times over, lady. You are not the first, nor will you be the last. He is worthy of it, believe me."

"He loves the Queen," she said, looking to the north, and the next leg of their journey. Lancelot nodded.

"Aye. And she him."

They spoke no more, each lost in their own contemplative thoughts.

Another long two days of riding, and the three knights, Lancelot, and Amaidis arrived at the small village on the edge of the Oceanus Germanicus. It was sacked and burned, and it was very easy to follow the tracks of the large army west.

"What do you think?" Lancelot whispered to the scout. She shook her head, cocking it to one side, a finger to her lips.

He sulked, a bit put out that she had shushed him. Grinning at him, she listened intently for a few moments, then nodded to herself.

"West, due west. They are trying to take the island inland, village by village," she said at last.

Lancelot sputtered slightly. "How do you know…" and then he heard the sound, and shivered despite himself.

"What is that?" Edward, the youngest of the knights, asked, his face blanching.

"Saxon war drums," Lancelot replied, turning abruptly on his heel, and mounting his waiting horse.

"Mount up, gentlemen…and lady," he said. "We follow them. They are not a half days ride ahead of us…am I right, Amaidis?"

She quirked an eyebrow, then nodded. "You have experience with tracking," she said, getting on her own animal.

"No," he said, "but I do have experience with Saxons, and the sooner we find them and get back to report their position, the better for all of us."

As night fell on their fourth day out, the five came upon the Saxon camp. They had passed through four decimated towns, and Lancelot was sick to his stomach. His anger boiled inside him like a living thing, ready to rip through his gut and tear out the throat of the first Saxon he encountered.

He waved to Amaidis and the three knights, and they kneeled down next to him, peering over an outcropping of rock, spying on the large camp.

The Saxons were reveling, and it was a sight Lancelot nor Amaidis cared to see ever again.

The spoils of war filled the camp, animals, weapons, food, some precious stones, and of course, women.

Lancelot cursed, spitting onto the ground at the noise they made.

"Bastards," he muttered. "I see things have changed since the last invasion," he told Amaidis quietly. "They certainly aren't concerned with being attacked, or not making their presence known."

She nodded, clearing her throat. The sight of so much violence and madness was obviously affecting her more than she would like to let on.

"Don't worry, Amaidis," Lancelot told her, his gloved hand heavy on her shoulder. "It makes you no less of a person to feel disgust…I would worry if you didn't," he added, looking to his right, and the knights next to him. They were all equally grey, and he grimaced at their expressions.

"What shall we report, Sir?" Ian, the third knight, and the only one to have seen any kind of action previously, asked Lancelot.

"How many do you see, knight?" Lancelot queried him.

"An entire army," the young man whispered back.

"Indeed. And that is what we shall tell Arthur. And how much livestock they carry, where they have been, and the direction they are heading, which looks to have changed since we first saw them…in a more southwesterly direction, wouldn't you say, scout?"

Amaidis nodded, regret on her pretty face, her red eyebrows drawn together. "Aye, Sir. Right toward the Wall."

"Very well then, lets get a quick inventory of their supplies-" Lancelot started, pivoting on his booted feet, reaching for his saddlebag, which held a small roll of parchment and a cumbersome quill and ink set.

He briefly heard Amaidis scream before he felt the hilt of a large sword strike him behind his left ear.

The world tilted crazily, his face striking the muddy ground, and all was darkness.

Tbc.


	4. Chapter four

Author's notes:

I don't know too much about Saxon history or Warlords, so the fact that they seem lazy and ill prepared in this fic is because that is how I choose for them to be to satisfy my plot needs.

I am very new at writing battle or fight scenes, so forgive this one if it sucks. Trust me, you won't ever see many huge fight scenes in a fic from me. ;)

Many thanks again to MR for the awesome beta. You are the best, and I thank thee kindly, yea, verily. hugs

Enjoy.

Light wavered in front of his closed lids. Lancelot risked cracking one open, and was immediately sorry. His gorge rose, bile filling his mouth. He choked it down, determined not to appear weak to the vile bastards who had apparently snuck up on him and his companions without any of them hearing. Brilliant. Arthur would be so pleased.

Torches flickered in the tent he was housed in, and by moving his hands he ascertained he was bound to the post that held the thing up.

Amaidis, the scout, lay in a messy heap near him, her simple clothing ripped violently away from her. She was unconscious, and Lancelot thanked all the gods that she was. Blood seeped from a nasty wound on her temple, and various cuts and slashes all up and down her limbs were dripping the vital fluid as well. He winced looking at her face. It was barely recognizable, due to the numerous bruises now rising on it.

She seemed to be lying in a pool of muck, but after shaking the hair out of his face, he realized with a dark scowl that it was blood. She had been damaged heavily, as pillaging men are wont to do, and he railed again at his accursed stupidity for letting this happen.

He opened the other eye, determined now to see the small room in full. Groaning, he saw the armor of his three knights stacked in the corner, bloodied and empty.

Gods damn it! Arthur would never forgive him for this. What a fool. How in the name of all things holy had he allowed himself to be taken like this? He was a Sarmatian knight, for pity's sake. Sarmatian knights do not get ambushed by barbaric Saxon troops.

Sarmatian knights don't allow men or women under their care to be murdered or brutalized. And he had done both. And what the hell was this particular Sarmatian knight still doing alive? They must think him some kind of leader; perhaps they wanted to ransom him.

Slamming his head against the post he was tied to, Lancelot let loose a long string of curses in his native tongue, stopping when a large, burly guard lifted the tent flap, shouted "Leave off, you!" and dropped the material quickly.

A noise reached his ears, and he turned his dark eyes, made darker still by the rage welling up inside to Amaidis, who was coming around.

"Wha…where?" she muttered, trying to push herself into a sitting position. She moaned helplessly and fell back into a heap on the dirt floor. Lancelot kicked and pulled at his bonds, determined to get free. Cursing and tugging, the only thing he succeeded in doing was to reopen the wounds on his wrists, blood flowing freely over the ropes that bound him.

The Saxons had tied the bonds tight, and had obviously cut through his skin when doing so. It was annoyingly painful, but not enough to make him stop working on them. He wished he had any kind of little dagger, or any kind of piece of metal to help him along.

He grimaced, one thought coming to mind. He'd done it only once before, and did not relish trying what he was thinking of again. But…he had to get out of there, and back to Arthur. And Guinevere. He shivered, thinking briefly of what he would do to the enemy were they to lay a hand on her.

Feeling the slippery stuff, he tried working his hands faster, making the liquid flow. It was a long shot, but if the ropes were wet enough…He moved his wrists about, trying to breathe through his mouth, the coppery tang of his own blood heavy in his nostrils.

At last one hand _squipped _free, and he shook it loose from the rough hewn material. The other came quickly after, and he stopped momentarily, ripping two pieces off his tunic, and tied them hastily around his wrists. He hoped it would be enough. The wounds didn't look that deep.

He leaped to his feet, and swayed like a tree in the wind. The place behind his ear throbbed mightily, and he put a hand up to it, making a face at the huge knot there.

_I've gotten over worse, _he thought.

Crouching next to Amaidis, he dragged a heavy wool cloak from the corner, and wrapped it around the scout. Lifting her up, he rubbed his knuckles gently across her cheek, hoping to wake her without resorting to hitting her.

She made a garbled noise, then opened her eyes.

"Sir…what?" she said through swollen lips. He tried to smile reassuringly at her, but failed. Tears of fury threatened on the ends of his lashes, and he blinked them away quickly, not wanting her to think he was angry with her.

"Amaidis," he whispered urgently, "we have been taken by Saxons. It appears that our fellows are dead…do you think you can stand?"

She laughed a bit, choking at the last, blood bubbling between her lips.

"I don't think I'm going anywhere, sir knight," she told him finally, her breath coming in hard gasps. He shook his head, running his hands over her torso and limbs, feeling for broken bones. He started slightly when he encountered a large lump over each ankle, sighing softly. The bastards had broken them both, so she couldn't run.

"Then I shall carry you," he told her, looking around the small enclosure for any kind of weapon. "I have done it before with Galahad, and you are much smaller than he." He searched, growing more frantic as the moments went on. He had to get them out of there.

"It's all right, Lancelot," she said quietly, and he turned, shocked at her casual use of his name. She had not said it before now. He hunkered down next to her again, wanting to be able to hear her speak.

"I will not live to see our outpost again, or to serve my King as I had dreamed of doing for so long," she told him, and he shook his head.

"I will get us out of this, I promise you. You will not die here," he told her, hissing his response angrily. No more death on his hands. He'd had enough.

"I am already on my way to my maker," she said, a smile gracing her lips. His eyes burned, and he swiped at them, the presence of tears an anathema to his warriors mind. He wanted to show her strength and compassion in her last minutes, not boyish sobs or sorrow.

"Will you tell the King something for me?" she added. He bobbed his head in acquiescence. "Anything."

"Tell him it was an honor to have served him, and I would give my life for him again, were I to have the chance," she said, pulling herself upward slightly back into his arms.

"You may tell him yourself, lady," Lancelot murmured, knowing it to be just comfort now that she needed.

"I must tell you something as well," the dying scout told him. He quirked one eyebrow, trying to put all his charm into that simple expression. He would not have her die a painful death alone, unloved. He tightened his arms around her, grazing her temple with his lips.

"The Queen loves you, I see it. We all see it. Do not waste it," she sputtered, her breath starting to come heavier and harder now. He gaped at her in shock, and began to protest. She laughed softly, shaking her own head.

"Do not deny it, sir. Just take the gift she would give you, and be happy."

"…I will try," he answerd at last, not wanting to go into all the reasons that he could not. Her gaze left his face, and stared upward. She refocused on him a moment later, and pulled his ear close to her lips.

"Give Arthur something for me."

His brows drew together, and his eyes widened as she planted her lips on his, the kiss lusty and burning, full of desire unfulfilled. His eyes fluttered shut, and remained so when she fell away from his grasp.

There wasn't much that Lancelot hated more than sneaking away from a fight. Leaving his companions bodies behind, that ranked close. But he had no choice.

He gently laid the body of the scout down, dashing the last of his sorrow to the winds. He would need to be steely now, in order to get away and get back to the Wall post haste. He resumed his search for any kind of weapon, and was quickly growing frustrated at the lack of success, when he happened to glance over at Amaidis' bright hair, which had fallen down from its large pin when he had moved her body.

He cocked his head to the side, then a great laugh burst from his mouth, which made his cracked lips bleed again, but he didn't care.

"Apologies my friend, and I thank you for the gift," he murmered to the young woman, and pulled the ornamental asian stick from her hair, which would make a most excellent small dagger. She had been a smart one. He pushed down another surge of white hot anger, and gathered himself together, ready to try and get the hell out of the Saxon encampment. He could only hope that the soldiers themselves were asleep or drunk, as he couldn't hear much noise from the outside.

He risked his own wrath, sending a glance back at the body of the scout. He sighed, and closed his eyes. Muttering an oath, he returned quickly to her body, having noticed a small chain hanging from around her neck. At the end of it a tiny ornamental cross rested, very much like the one Lancelot had seen in Arthur's quarters. He knew Amaidis wasn't strictly any religion, so he figured she wore it as a sign of loyalty to Arthur. He gently slid the chain from around her neck, and pocketed the small token.

"I will see he gets this, Amaidis, and knows of your loyalty and generosity," he whispered to her. "Your sacrifice will not go unanswered."

He covered her face with the end of the cloak he had drawn about her, and set about the task of getting out.

Duck walking close to the tent flap, he closed one eye, and stared out the gap between the material making up the door to the tent.

The guard that had yelled at him earlier was the only moving body he could see. Everyone else seemed to be passed out, or snoring into their wine cups.

"Methinks the important things have changed for these soldiers," he whispered to himself, grinning amusedly at the thought of great Saxon warriors asleep in their own vomit. Things had indeed changed a lot since the last invasion. Luckily for him, they had changed in his favor.

Eyeballing the area once more, absolutely certain no one else was about, he quickly lifted the tent flap, and came up behind his guard, running silently. The man had a chance to half turn and say what sounded like "What?" before his throat was cut by the shining deadly steel stick Lancelot wielded as a knife.

The man's large body slumped to the ground, and the Sarmatian knight crouched down with it, hoping no one had seen anything. Thank the gods, his quick violence had escaped notice.

A few soldiers were walking about and talking, but most of them seemed more interested in discussing the activities of their next raid than watching out for enemy escapees.

Lancelot skulked away from the dead guard, hoping to find the horseyard, where he could, with any luck, grab a mount and take off quietly.

His body felt incredibly light, and within a moment he realized why. Cursing under his breath, he turned, and headed back toward the camp.

He was not leaving his beloved twin blades in the hands of classless barbarians from the sea.

Creeping on ghostlike feet, he approached what seemed to be the main tent, which was a gaudy and large affair. The flaps were propped open, and he could just make out men inside, speaking in rough tongues. He had no knowledge of the Saxon language, but he could see that they were speaking harshly to one another, gesticulating at a large map on a table.

Sneaking as close as he dared, he saw with shocked horror that the two Saxon commanders were arguing over one point on the map- a nicely stocked garrison in the mid point of Hadrian's Wall.

Arthur's stronghold.

He heard a few words he recognized…words like 'king' and 'Romans' and 'Britons.' He also heard the name of Arthur spoken a few times, and had to surmise that the Saxon's ultimate goal was to take out Arthur's garrison, and from there, the rest of the Island.

Well, he would walk through the gates of Hell with a welcoming smile on his face if he was going to allow that to happen.

It was more imperative now than ever to get back to the Wall. Looking about, he saw a few of his things piled on another table in the tent, his saddle, cloak, armor, and his swords.

Ah, yes. The only things he truly owned of any value. Motherless barbarians were in for a surprise if they thought they could touch his weaponry and live.

Trying to think of the quickest and easiest way to distract them, he picked up a small rock from the ground at his feet, hefting in his hand silently. It would do.

Tossing it to the other side of the open tent doorway, he watched as the two leaders jerked their heads up, speaking rapidly to each other. One drew his sword, and cautiously exited the tent, intent on finding out the source of the strange noise. Lancelot waited a moment for the man to hopefully get out of earshot, then ran as fast as he dared into the enclosure. The other Saxon man, clearly dumbfounded at seeing a strange foreign man come running at him inside his own tent, hesitated.

Within a second he was gurgling and sinking to his knees, the long metal hair pin portruding from his throat, blood gushing down his front.

Lancelot, wasting no time, scooped up his swords and scabbards, and retreated for all he was worth.

As he made it to the horseyard, shouts and alarms could be heard, and he vaulted over the trees that had been felled to keep the animals in one general area.

Grabbing the first able bodied mount he saw, he leapt upon it bareback, gigging at its sides with his heels.

The animal, a large black mare, whinnied loudly, and managed a messy jump over the low trees.

Lancelot then let her run for it, smiling grimly at the loud alarums and shrieks of anger fading into the distance behind him.

He knew he dare not stop to rest, for the Saxons would have figured out who had killed their men, and would be after him as quickly as their horses could carry them.

It was a hard two days ride back to the garrison with no stopping, and knowing this, he let the mare run at her leisure, determined to put as much distance as he could between himself and the men at his back.

36 hours into it, and he was swaying in the saddle, figuratively speaking, his wounds from the ambush throbbing in time with his heartbeat. His poor mount was practically foaming at the mouth, and when he saw a spring running next to their path, he pulled her up, panting almost in time with her. He knew she would go right for the water, but forced her to walk a little first, not wanting her to get sick drinking too much too fast.

After a short while of slow walking, they had both recovered from their ride somewhat, and he allowed the mare to drink at a normal pace from the stream.

Wiping his grimy face with a bloodied hand, he checked his wrists, lifting the rough material of his shirt from around them. Hissing, he sank his hands into the cool water, washing some of the dried blood off. The one on the right looked all right, like it would heal with minimal damage. The left however, was an angry red, and he gasped with pain when he pressed on the edge of the tear, wincing at the sight of pus filling the wound.

Damn Saxons and their damn rough rope, he thought. Couldn't they have chained him up like any civilized enemy?

His horse finished drinking, and stood there, staring at him. He patted her flank, then tore more of his tunic apart, wrapping his now somewhat cleaner wounds with the new material. He tied it as tight as he dared, not wanting them to start bleeding again.

"We're almost there, girl," he told the horse, patting her soft nose. She nickered in response, butting him slightly in the shoulder. He smiled, then remounted.

"What woman doesn't hold affection for the noble Lancelot?" he joked, leaning down to speak in her ear. "When we get to the Wall, you shall have the finest stall we have to offer, and as many apples as you would care to eat, my lady." The horses ears flickered once, twice, and then like a fresh animal she was off.

He laughed loudly, and wrapped his hands in her mane, praying to see the familiar long grey brick of his current home soon.

TBC.


	5. Chapter Five

Five.

As dawn broke over the horizon, the change in the rhythm of his mount woke Lancelot from his exhausted stupor.

A great silly grin burst over his face as the Wall came into view. The morning of the eighth day; he had expected to see Arthur fully mounted with the entire army behind him. Lancelot was nothing if not punctual.

He reached down, patting the tired horse with his right hand. She whinnied loudly, and the few townspeople up and about raised their heads, looking to see what the commotion was about.

One young man, Connor if Lancelot remember correctly, came sprinting toward him.

"Sir, sir, are you all right? The King's been worried sick! It's been eight days…here, let me help you," the youth said in a garbled rush. Lancelot waved him off tiredly, blinking his eyes rapidly in order to wake up.

"I require no assistance, thank you. My horse, however, is a different manner entirely…if you would see to her once we get inside, I would be in your debt."

"Of course, sir, of course," Connor answered, happy to be of any kind of assistance to one of the king's best knights and the head of his guard.

"Open the gates!" Lancelot bellowed as they approached, hailing the guard at the tower. The man saluted as he recognized his commanding officer, and the gates swung open as fast as the large hinges would allow.

"Lancelot! Lancelot approaches!" the guards on the tower yelled to the ones inside the keep, and a few of them rushed off in different directions to find the king.

Making his way inside the commons, Lancelot slid off the trembling horse, and tumbled to the ground, his knees buckling, not able to hold his slight weight a moment longer.

Connor jumped to his aid, but the Sarmatian man glowered at him, gritting out, "my horse," and pointed to the mare.

Connor backed away from the fallen knight, and nodded once. "Aye sir, she shall be well cared for."

As soon as the boy and horse left the area, Lancelot allowed himself to fall backward, his arms spread wide, eyes closing.

He was barely aware as hands roamed over him, and concerned voices reached his ears through a fog.

_Lancelot? Can you hear me? Speak, man! Lancelot?_

_Don't move him too roughly! Bring him to my chamber…my ladies will take care of him._

_Guinevere?_ He thought muzzily, then all was dark.

A strange, high keening sound woke him, and he started, gasping for air, leaping upwards from the bed.

Bed linens were twisted around him, and his left hand throbbed miserably. He looked down, dimly aware that he was unclothed save for simple muslin pants. The noise that had woken him stopped suddenly, and a small figure was abruptly next to him, shaking him so hard he swore he heard his teeth rattle.

"Damn it! Damn you! We thought you were dead! How could you do this to me?" the words came rapid fire at him, and he refocused slowly on the body in his arms.

"My lady, I did not do it on purpose, I assure you," he told Guinevere tiredly, and attempted to lay back. She grasped him roughly with her strong arms, and pulled him to her, the wetness from her eyes soaking his bare shoulder.

"I did not think to see you again," she whispered. "You are always back when you say you will be. I…we feared the worst."

He wrapped his own arms about her, and risked a kiss to her temple. Sighing, he rested his head on top of hers. "I am sorry, truly," he sighed again, uncharacteristically showing the gamut of emotions that were riding his body like a pack animal. "It was a disaster."

"I see that the others did not arrive with you…what has happened?" she asked, leaning back from him, a steely glint in her eyes. Gone was the weeping maiden; the warrior queen had made her presence known.

"We were ambushed," he bit off, the words like ice. "They died," he added through clenched teeth. A muscle in his jaw flexed once, twice.

"I must speak with Arthur," he said, breaking her intense gaze. She nodded.

"I shall bring him to you…he's been pacing the halls since you got back."

Lancelot laughed slightly. "Have I kept him waiting long? I didn't expect to sleep so heavily…." he trailed off at the look on her face. "Guinevere, what?"

"Lancelot…you have been unconscious with fever for five days," the queen told him softly. "Your wounds must have been more aggravated than you thought. Your left hand was badly infected." She picked it up, an apologetic look crossing her face when he hissed with pain at the contact. She gently unwrapped the bandage, a dark expression appearing when she saw what lay underneath. "Lancelot, you wrong those who care for you…who care when you are hurt, no matter the severity of the wound." Her strong, soldiers hands shook slightly as they lightly touched his injury.

He rolled his eyes at her concern, bluffing a laugh, in order not to show her just how much her words meant to him.

"I have seen worse, my lady, believe me. I have suffered worse," he added, raising his right hand to feel for the lump at the back of his left ear. Thankfully the swelling had mostly gone down.

"Just the same…I shall call for the healer, and find Arthur," she told him, rising from her seat on the end of his bed.

Lancelot watched her prepare to go, and suddenly the idea that he was still alive, he alone, and the woman he loved was about to leave, taking with her the momentary respite he had found from the horrors of his failure, was an abhorrence to him. He forced himself out of the bed, stood tottering next to her, and grabbed her arms roughly.

He yanked her to his chest, crushing her against his fever heated body. His lips descended on hers roughly, and she was too shocked to respond at first. Only a moment passed before she realized the gravity of what they were doing, with Arthur somewhere nearby.

And yet she couldn't seem to care.

Their lips met like those of lovers parted for years on end, and she ran her hands up his back, shaken at the hotness of his skin, but unable to pull herself away.

He dropped his mouth to her neck, nuzzling at the slender column like a man starved. She groaned at his touch, the rough prickling of his beard grazing her skin as welcome as the finest silk wrap. She pressed herself closer to him. If she crawled inside him she wouldn't be close enough.

Footsteps rang down the stone passageway, and Guinevere leapt away from Lancelot as if he were a poisonous but exquisite flower, the draw of its beauty almost enough to make her ignore the sheer folly of touching it.

"Arthur," she whispered, and pushed the knight back into his sickbed, wrapping him with the linens that she hastily straightened around him.

"I will tell him you are not ready for visitors just yet…I want the healer to see you first," she said firmly when he tried to protest. "You are not well enough for battle talk."

"Guinevere…the Saxons are on their way. They will be here within days, if not a day, since I have been asleep for so long," he told her, worry making his brows draw together. "Arthur needs to prepare, now."

"He has been ready to fight since the seventh day you were gone, and did not come riding over the hill," she answered, and he fell backwards, all fight gone out of him.

"Very well…but I must see him soon, within the hour if possible."

"It will be so," she told him, and hastened out of the room, the door slamming shut behind her.

Lancelot could hear her speaking in hushed tones with Arthur, who's low baritone carried better than her higher voice.

They argued a bit, then he heard Arthur's booted feet retreating with angry, hollow steps. He closed his eyes, and touched his lips lightly with his fingers. Her mouth still burned on his.

"Gods forgive me," he muttered to himself, then bit off a laugh. "…or whomever cares to listen."

Arthur grabbed the shoulder of the druid healer, a man of some years from Guinevere's own tribe, as he passed the king in the empty hallway outside the queen's apartments.

"Well? How does he fare?" he asked the man, concern and fury held barely in check. A muscle spasmed in Arthur face, and he shook his head slightly. The druid shrugged his shoulders, making a face.

"He is not the most ideal patient," he told the king, and at that Arthur allowed a small laugh to escape his throat.

"Sounds to me like he's recovering his charming personality, at any rate."

"Indeed," the druid said sourly. "He needs rest, and to drink the mixture I left for him. He also needs to apply the salve left on the nightstand…the queen has been informed, and I know she will see to it."

"I will make sure he does as well, trust me," Arthur said, a little taken aback that the man had already informed Guinevere of Lancelot's condition before telling him. He did know, however, how much she cared for the younger man; he was, after all, Arthur's most trusted friend and ally. He was also a brother, if not by blood, by soul, and she knew how important it was to Arthur that Lancelot not be injured. It would destroy him if the man were to come to any harm.

"I shall visit him, and make sure he is doing as you say," the king told the druid, and the man nodded. "If you should have need of me, the queen knows where to find me."

"I thank you for your service," Arthur told him gravely, and tilted his head down in a gesture of respect. When he raised his eyes, the old druid was gone.

Arthur pushed the door to Guinevere's apartments open slowly, not wanting to wake his friend if he were sleeping.

The dark haired knight was turned on his side, and Arthur could see that he was staring out the high window that allowed the afternoon sun to shine in.

"And how is the prisoner this afternoon?" Arthur said cheerfully. The last thing he wanted to do was to drag Lancelot's spirits down immediately; they would need to speak of serious enough things only too soon.

"Sick of bed and ready for the tavern," Lancelot replied, not looking back at Arthur. The king worried; by the slump of the knights shoulders and the tenseness in his neck, Arthur could tell just how heartsick his most trusted friend was.

The king walked around the edge of the bed, and seated himself next to Lancelot, who levered himself into a sitting position. The mostly undrunk potion the druid had left sat in an iron flagon on a table next to the bed, and Arthur eyed it pointedly. Lancelot sighed, picked up the mug, and glugged down the rest of the liquid, making a horrid face as he finished. Arthur tried to supress a laugh, but wasn't very successful.

"You are not a good friend, do you know that? A good friend would dump the contents of that foul smelling cup into the closest privy and tell the healer that the patient had swallowed it," Lancelot told Arthur sourly, wiping an arm across his mouth, the gagging expression on his face still evident.

"A good friend would not let his best knight die of infection, either. How are you feeling?" Arthur queired.

Lancelot shrugged. "My hand is on fire, and I feel weak and shaky like a newborn colt. It does not become me, I can assure you."

Arthur touched his friend's neck, then forehead. "You are cooler than you have been. That in itself is a marvel. I have never seen anyone with such fever. You scared me," he said truthfully, his green gaze boring into Lancelot's brown one, and the knight cleared his throat, looking away from the intensity of emotion that shone out of Arthur's face.

"I apologize, my king. I did not mean to trouble you so," he said gruffly, swallowing past the lump in his throat. "I do not warrant such greivous worry from you."

"Lancelot, you wrong me. You are my brother. I will always care what happens to you," Arthur said, sadness creeping into his voice, and Lancelot wanted to weep at the similarity between the words Arthur spoke and those of Guinevere only hours before. "I know this mission did not end the way you wanted, but I do not blame you. I know you did everything you could to make sure things were done the way I wanted."

Lancelot barked a rough laugh. "Arthur, I don't think you would have been ambushed by classless warriors, or let your best scout be raped, then have her die in your arms. I also don't think you would have let three young, inexperienced knights be butchered by said bastards, their armor left to rust in a pile miles from their home. I failed you miserably, and I have nothing to show for it."

"Damn it, man, you did all you could! I know you wouldn't have done any less. And the fact that you are here, and can report on where exactly the enemy is moving, is a blessing in and of itself. I am heartily sorry for the loss of the young men," Arthur said, standing abruptly and pacing away from the bed, his boots making a stomping sound that belied his calm demeanor, " and I care not to think of Amaidis right now…that is a loss that will weigh on my soul for more time than I care to admit. But we can do nothing about it now, save prepare the army and protect the peoples of this land I have sworn to protect with my blood and my sword. I can thank God that you have survived to fight at my side again."

At Arthur's mention of the scout, Lancelot suddenly remembered the small token he had taken from her body. He shakily climbed out of the queen's bed, and went to his folded clothing, which was piled on a large chair by the wall.

Searching through the pockets of his leather overvest, he found the small trinket, and turned to face Arthur, who had stopped pacing and stood a few feet from the other man.

"I took this from her…I thought you might care to have it," he told the king, and held out the necklace.

Arthur took the cross from him, and held it in his palm, the shining metal like a child's toy in his large hand.

A strange expression crossed his face, and Lancelot thought for a moment the king would throw the small token to the floor.

"I thank you, Lancelot. I would indeed care to keep this," he said at last, a queer tone to his voice, one that the knight had never heard from his friends lips before. He pocketed the small thing. His eyes were bloodshot, and he clenched his hand to quell the tremoring in it.

"I hesitate to make you speak of this…but what exactly happened?"

The Sarmatian man frowned, and sat back on the bed. He toyed with the linens for a minute, then let out an extremely shaky breath.

"We had come upon the encampment. Ian, Edward, Roland, Amaidis and I were speaking of what to report. I turned to get my ink out of my saddlebags, and heard the scout scream. Something hit me behind the ear, a sword hilt I'm thinking now, judging by the size of this lump," he mused, fingering the thing, "and I passed out. When I awoke, I was tied in a tent with Amaidis, who had been beaten and attacked. The armor of the others was piled haphazardly in a corner, stained with crimson. The boys were dead, and the scout died in my arms a moment later," he added darkly.

"How did you…" Arthur started to ask, then closed his mouth as Lancelot held up his injured wrists.

"Blood is an excellent lubricant," the knight said sarcastically. He continued, saying, "Lucky for me, Amaidis' hair was held up by a sharp Asian stick, and I was able to use it to kill my guard before stealing a horse. I rode back, and here I am. Nothing more, nothing less. I can tell you where the Saxons were a few days ago…but I am certain they are most definitely closer than they were then."

Lancelot chose not to tell Arthur the fact that he had risked his life again to retrieve his swords. The king would most assuredly not approve.

"We have not seen any smoke, nor heard drums yet….but I am readying the forces as we speak. Some other scouts," Arthur said, and here he paused before clearing his throat, "some others are already on their way now. We should have a field report within twenty four hours. Hopefully, and I hesitate to say this, the bastards are making slow time. I want to be ready. We will be ready."

He stood, rubbing a hand across his tired, stubbled face. Lancelot stood as well, feeling a bit better.

"You should rest," the king told him, and Lancelot shook his his head. "Whatever was in that vile draught the druid gave me has made me a new man…for the present, at any rate. I will get dressed, and come with you to the Table. We must discuss our plan of action."

He reached for his shirt, and pulled it over his head, trying to mask his whimper of pain when his damaged wrist caught on the sleeve.

"Rest, my friend. I shall report back to you. I need you to be at full strength soon, for I will need your courage sooner than I would like. I will have Guinvere check on you, and with some sustanance."

Lancelot, ashamed of his pain, and of his desire to see the queen again, merely cocked one eyebrow. He sat back upon the bed, and closed his dark eyes slowly.

"My brother, do not worry. The information you have discovered is timely and appreciated. We would surely have been ambushed had you not seen that they were coming this way. The three knights and Amaidis' sacrifices will not have been in vain," Arthur said gently, taking the few steps that separated him from the other man.

"She was in love with you," Lancelot said suddenly, not opening his eyes.

"What?" Arthur answered, the uncertainty in his voice obvious.

"Amaidis. She loved you."

Arthur made a pffft noise with his lips. "All scouts respect their leaders…this is to be expected."

"Arthur, no. She was in love with you…she told me as she bled to death as I held her. She wanted me to tell you…that she would do it all again for you. That she was disappointed she hadn't been able to do more for you. She was infatuated…and a good and loyal person. And I let her die."

Arthur passed a hand over his eyes, but did not speak. Lancelot watched him for a moment, then lay back down and shuttered himself.

A heartbeat; then the king was gone, the door swinging shut softly behind him.

Tbc.


	6. Chapter six

Six.

The following day, Lancelot insisted on being moved back to his own rooms. Guinevere protested, but only lightly, as she knew it would seem strange for him to stay in her quarters when he had his own close by.

He took stock of all his posessions, and called for a servant. When the man arrived, Lancelot asked for a bath to be drawn for him.

"Sir, are you sure? You wouldn't want to catch your death of cold," the concerned servant asked. The knight just looked at him, and the man shrugged, muttering, "crazy foreigners," as he left to retrieve the heated water and basin.

The Sarmatian slowly pulled off his tunic and pants, and stood naked in the light of the afternoon sun that shone in his high windows. He had requested this room specifically when Arthur had become king; the watery British sun he received each day was so different from the heat of the summer plains of his home that it kept his mind off what could have been.

A knock sounded on the door, and he called out "enter," without covering up for modesty's sake. He did not care who saw him.

"Your bath, sir," the servant said, and he turned, watching as the eyes of the young girls who had brought the water in popped almost as big as the tankards in the tavern. He calmly walked to the large metal basin, and stepped in, sinking to his neck in the hot water, hissing in pleasure at the contact.

"Tell the king I will attend him presently…at the Table," he told the man, who bowed, and backed out of the room, the two young women goggling at the naked knight. He smirked at them, and winked salaciously. They blushed fiercely, although one smiled back at him. He laughed aloud as they shut his door behind them.

_The Queen loves you, I see it._

_Do not deny it, sir. Just take the gift she would give you, and be happy._

Blood swirled around him in the iron tub, and the faces of the boys who had been butchered while in his care rose out of the water to taunt his failure.

_The scout's red hair, and bright green eyes filled his vision, her words echoing in his soul._

Lancelot let out a choked sob, and sunk his head under the water, the grime and sweat of many days on the road fanning out over the water, the oily muck a stain on the pristine crystal quality of the stuff.

He resurfaced a moment later, hair soaked and pushed back off his forehead. Scrubbing a hand over his beard, he balanced his arms on his knees, and dared to look intently at his left wrist.

It was healing for certain, but the scar would be deep, and thick. He wasn't truly certain if he would ever weild a sword in that hand again. At that thought, he glanced over at his blades, laying forgotten on the corner table of his apartments. He vowed to care for them as soon as he was done speaking with Arthur and the war council.

Looking down at himself, he was surprised at the sight of his hipbones, and the jutting of his ribs. "Must remember to eat more," he muttered, frowning.

Sick of introspection and ready to face Arthur and the others, he rose, and wrapped a thick robe about himself that the serving man had left on the bed.

Still weak, but not feverish, he sighed, pleased that he felt slightly back to normal.

Slapping the salve the druid had left for him on his wrists, he dressed hastily, happy to put on clean clothing.

A dark green undershirt, black studded tunic, and black pants went on quickly, followed by his boots, now clean of all road matter.

He strapped on one of his smaller swords, the leather belt the scabbard was attached to one of his favorites, a large black ornamental number purchased from a tribe of Moorish traders that had come through the area almost ten years previous.

Wringing out his hair, he glanced at himself as he passed the small mirror he kept for shaving.

Gaunt, high cheekbones, defined brown eyes shadowed by time and sorrow, and wrinkles he hadn't known he had were etched in his skin like fine lines in a cheaply made vase.

He laughed hollowly at his inspection. "Time waits for no man," he said grimly, and quit his rooms.

No more putting it off. He must face Arthur and the others now, and publically admit his failures.

Arthur had just slammed his fist down on the table, the noise echoing about the room, when Lancelot entered. The other knights stood, a few greeted him, Bors slapping him happily on the back when he passed.

He nodded at Arthur and took his seat.

"Welcome back, lazy bones," Bors called, smiling. "Little kitten venturing out from it's sick bed?"

"I head Vanora was having a hard time without me, so I couldn't stay ill for too long," Lancelot shot back, and the other man made an obscene gesture at him. He grinned and turned to Arthur, who looked pleased to see him up and about.

"Are you certain you are well enough for this?" Arthur said softly so only the knight could hear him. Lancelot tilted his head once. "It has to be done now, Arthur. We don't have much time."

Arthur agreed, and turned back to the conference of knights.

"Through no fault of his own, Lancelot suffered a trying ordeal in order to get us information on where the Saxons are moving. However, before we discuss our plans, I am sorrowed to mention the loss of four good people that served us well," he added, his displeasure etched in his features. Lancelot winced inwardly, but kept his face blank. He knew it was his fault, and he must not shy away from the telling of it.

Arthur stood, and raised his cup. The others joined him, Lancelot last, and moving slowly, the aching of his bones suddenly worse. He was loathe to admit to anyone else how bad the loss of the four wore on him.

"Ian, Roland, Edward. May they receive the bounty they deserve in the afterlife," Arthur said solemnly, and put his cup to his lips, drinking deeply. The knights in the hall did the same.

"Amaidis. My faithful scout and friend," he added, and hesitated. Lancelot noted how his hand shook, and was surprised that he said no more, merely draining his cup. The men followed suit, and sat when Arthur waved them down.

"Now, onto business. Lancelot, would you care to show us the route you discovered the Saxons are taking?"

The men poured out of the hall, some heading to their quarters, others to the stable to prepare their horses to leave the following morning.

Arthur's scouts had returned in the middle of the war council, and had provided timely news. The sea devils were perhaps a days ride from the Wall, and if they rode out at dawns' first light, they could cut them off before the Saxons reached the outlying villages near the fortress.

Lancelot sat alone at the outskirts of Badon Hill, the simple, solitary graves stretched out before him like fence rows.

He studied the mound in front of him, and toed the ground slightly. The night breeze made the fabric wrapped around the large battle axe flutter like a trapped bird.

"For a quiet man, you always knew what to do," he murmured at last to the earth. It did not answer.

"He misses you. We all do…when you died, it was like the soul of us went with you," he added, touching the grass lightly with his fingers. "I know we did not have much in common, but you always respected me, and I wanted you to know that I had much admiration for you, and your ways. If I had half your patience and wisdom, I think much of what has befallen me would have ended up more to my liking. I am not a graceful or serene person," Lancelot added, laughing slightly. "But I did pay attention to your ways…and wanted you to know that. Arthur will never let your death have been in vain, Dagonet."

"Communing with the dead?" the voice hit him like a blow to the chest, and he did not turn to face her.

"They listen better than the living," he said acerbically. His mood was foul, and not much could make it any better.

She sighed heavily, and crouched next to him. "You miss him."

"I miss them both," he answered, gesturing at Tristan's grave as well. "They did not deserve to die the way they did, in answer to a fight not their own."

"I agree, Lancelot. But it wasn't your fault. It wasn't Arthur's fault. They died doing what they did best, and I don't believe they would be sorry for it," Guinevere said, and jumped back slightly when the knight rounded on her, tears of fury in his eyes.

"You know nothing of them. Don't think you do. They sacrificed themselves for a world that was already dead…and for a cause only fools followed."

He clenched his hands together, then ran one of them through his curly hair, making it stand up in the wind buffeting the air.

Guinevere moved around so she was facing him, and took his hands in hers. He finally met her eyes, and she raised a hand, tracing the line of his jaw with one finger. He shivered, and closed his eyes.

"The recent deaths weigh heavy on your soul, I can see it on your face," she whispered to him. "But, my love, they would be hard pressed to want such suffering from you. Do not do this. Avenge their deaths. Go with us tomorrow to fight. Arthur will need you at his side," she said, releasing his fingers from hers.

"Arthur will need me, yes. What of the queen?" Lancelot said softly. She shook her head.

"That way lies madness," she answered at last, and he laughed slightly. She looked at him askance, and he cocked his head, one corner of his mouth raised.

"Our lives are madness, lady. We have seen to it that they will be so."

She looked at him, and a small sob escaped her lips at the pain and fatigue in his brown gaze.

"I am not a weak woman," she told him. He smiled at that, knowing it to be the only truth he could always count on. "But I feel weak around you. I swoon like some silly maiden, and wish only for your hands to be on me. I am ashamed of it…and yet I can't make it stop," Guinevere said, "it angers me and makes me feel like a stranger in my own skin. And yet…" she tapered off, chewing on her lip distractedly. Lancelot stood, and she followed suit.

"This is pointless," she blustered to herself. "What will be, will be, and we cannot change the past. I refuse to feel guilty for loving you," she told him, and reached a hand up to cup his cheek, echoing a movement he had seen her make before with Arthur.

At the thought of his commanders' name, the Sarmatian knight pulled away from the queen, his dark gaze downcast.

"Aye, my lady, but we are guilty. Arthur does not deserve betrayal by his most loyal subjects," he said, the rising wind pulling the words from his mouth. She glared at him as if struck.

"Do you think I don't feel that too? Lancelot, he saved me from a fate worse than death. I owe him everything. He gave me my freedom. And he fought for me, and for this land, even when everything he had ever known was trampled on. I love him. I owe him. But, for the goddesses sake, and please tell me how to fix this if you can, I am not in love with him. And I berate myself every night when I lie in his arms, wishing it was yours around me instead."

"Oh, Guinevere," he answered her, the humor in his voice not reaching his eyes, "if wishes were horses, my lady."

"Indeed," she answered, the word leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. She glanced sideways at him, and suddenly the severity of what the next few days action might bring brought a surge of unwanted emotions to her heart.

She ran the few feet that seperated them, and clasped him to her. He trembled at her touch, and raked his hands through her hair, and down her back, bruising her.

"He will be wondering where you are," Lancelot whispered to her between desperate, sucking kisses.

"Let him wonder," she replied, and they said no more.

Tbc.


	7. Chapter Seven

The wet grass felt strange underneath his knees as Lancelot sunk to the ground, the queen in his arms.

He couldn't stop touching her, couldn't cease running his hands all over her, feeling her flushed and blushing skin against his.

She grabbed a hank of his hair, pulling him closer to her. She planted a kiss on his throat, and a twisted, angry moan made it's way through his vocal cords and into the night air, a sound born of despair and betrayed love. He kissed her back, all the while thinking _anyone could see us, we are out in the open._

Throwing caution to the wind at the feel of her fingers wrapped in his, he dropped a hand to her shift, running it slowly up her trim abdomen, a smile blooming at her gasp of surprise. He toyed with the buttons on the front of the flimsy garment, popping one off in his haste.

She pushed him away, panting, eyes rolling in her sockets.

"I cannot do this, stop, don't," she garbled out, rage and indecision making the skin of her cheeks burn with blood.

"I owe him everything," she whispered. "I love him…Goddess! What am I doing here?"

"Taking advantage of the moment?" he responded harshly. "What are you doing here? What we have both been thinking of for months. What we have been acting out hastily in my rooms, or in the stable, or at the back of the commons. You fit me, my lady. You may have his heart, but you have my soul, and that is not something I can take back."

"Gods, Lancelot," she murmured, a hand rising to her face, her eyes flashing like lightning at his bald declaration.

"We both wanted you, you know. I yielded to his needs, just as I always will. I have never been ashamed of a choice before…and now, I wish to any gods that care to listen that I had fought harder for you. He needed you, I knew that. So I let him have you, didn't persue you. But Guinevere, from the moment I saw you in that squalid jail, you have held my essence in the palm of your hand. Why do you think I did what I did at Badon Hill?"

She gasped in shock. He never spoke of that event. Not to Arthur, not to the other knights. Here was a strange revelation indeed, and yet she still forced her mind from the truth of it.

Arthur worships her. He needs her to be the mighty queen to his king. And she does love him…but not in the way that she needs to love, with passion and all consuming fire.

And that need could be fulfilled, in the arms of the dark eyed knight kneeling in the grass in front of her.

She reached out a hand, to caress his face, and a voice came out of the darkness.

"Has he drunk too much again?"

She leaped back from Lancelot as if struck, hastily stood, and eyed Bors, who had come upon them making no noise whatsoever. She crossed her arms in as regal a way as possible, and crooked one eyebrow.

"I tripped. He was helping me up, that's all. I thank you, Sir Lancelot, for your kind assistance, but Arthur is surely wondering where I am. Can you see him safely back to the keep?" she asked the bald knight. He squinted an eye at her, then nodded finally.

"I will, lady. Have no fear, Sir Responsible will be abed soon," Bors answered. She glanced once at her dark haired knight, and wished she hadn't. His face was a mixture of anguish and lust, and she could just see a sheen of sweat standing out on his upper lip. She had to clasp her hands to keep from reaching out to touch his skin there. His sweet brown eyes, always so kind and open to her, were shadowed and shuttered.

She whirled about, her dress flying behind her, her anger and fear at discovery palpable in the air.

Lancelot in the meantime had sunken further to the ground, collapsing all his weight on his thighs.

Bors crouched down next to him, and shook his head.

"Can't keep it in your breeches, can you? Arthur's woman? Bah. Lancelot, you could choose from so many…why this one?"

"Because I will not love another like I love her," he answered simply, and Bors stared at him a moment before shrugging.

"It's your funeral," he replied, and helped the broken knight stagger back to the fortress.

Bors practically chucked the other knight through the door into his own chamber. All his needs for the journey the following morning had been seen to by several of Arthur's squires, and as Lancelot rolled into bed after toeing off his boots, he noted a goblet and beaker of wine sitting on the chest beside the bed.

A small note came with it, and an exquisitely jeweled dagger sat on the tray with the beaker and goblet.

He picked up the dagger, marking it's lightweightness and perfect balance.

Putting it aside, he unfolded the note, and read the short message there.

I will not speak with you before the morrow, so take this drink and toast our success. You are my dearest friend in the world, and I would give my own life for yours a thousand times over. Please believe I pray every night for the safety of my men, you most of all.

_Rest assured in the knowledge that whatever the future may bring, I would be much poorer for it if you were not there with me to see it._

_I remain loyaly yours._

_Arthur_

A smile crossed Lancelot's features, and he stared at the letter a few moments before setting it gently down on the chest. He ran a finger over the signature, and wondered at his idiocy in betraying the man the way he had. A true friend can forgive much, but Lancelot doubted that Arthur would forgive the sin of his passion for Guinevere. The man loved too deeply and steadfastly, and he would never understand the reasons the Lancelot could give him.

He picked up the goblet, lifting it in the air, saying softly, "To friendship," and drank the cup dry. It was a heady, sweet red, and he had another full cup before the lateness of the hour and too much drink sent him to slumber.

The sound of nothingness was what woke him. No horses, no men shouting at each other, no dogs barking, no Arthur yelling commands.

The only thing he heard were the birds chirping, and the soft breeze that came through his window. It blew the curtains back and forth, and he sat up, wondering and scrubbing at his face.

" 'm sposed to be somewhere," he muttered, and stood, looking about the room. His gaze fell on the pile of armor and weaponery set up in the center of the room, ready for him to wear. A white hot bolt of recollection hit him, and he slammed his eyes shut, a long string of curses escaping his mouth. He ran to the window, and smashed his injured left hand down on the sill.

They were gone. It was midmorning, and the raiding party had already ridden out.

"Damn it!" he roared, pounding his fists into the brickwork again and again, blood flowing fresh from the raw wounds.

"God damn you, Arthur!" he screamed until his voice was cracking from the volume. A hasty knocking was heard at his door, and he went to it, flinging it open.

"Where. Are. They," he asked Jols, who had the unfortunate duty of being the one requested to explain things to the very dangerously angry knight in front of him.

"Lancelot, please. You're scaring the chambermaids," the squire answered, hoping to joke the other man out of his temper.

No such luck. Jols could swear that steam was issuing from the man's nostrils, and the muscles in his cheeks jumped violently.

Lancelot gathered the material of Jols' shirt in his hand, and leaned in close enough to bite.

"Jols. Tell me where Arthur has gone."

"H-he left this for you," the man said, the nerves he felt at facing Lancelot firing to life. He wasn't a coward by nature, but Jols was no fool, either.

The Sarmatian snatched the piece of paper out of the squire's hand, and read it quickly, his hand still fisted in Jols tunic.

He let go finally, and the paper he held fluttered to the ground, forgotten.

"Jols," he said, a wooden tone to his voice the squire didn't like.

"Yes, Lancelot?"

"Saddle my horse. I will be there within ten minutes," the knight answered, and slammed the door to his quarters shut in Jols face.

The other man sighed, and bent to pick up the piece of paper Arthur had hastily given to him that morning.

He scanned it curiously, for since it was open, he hoped Lancelot wouldn't mind him reading the words written there.

I cannot risk losing you again. I am sorry for the trickery of the wine, but I saw no other way. Do not follow us. For my sake, if not your own.

_A_

Jols winced at the sound of boots echoing on the hard packed floor of the stable. Turning, he smiled brightly at Lancelot and offered a hand up, in deference to the knights' wounded hands.

Lancelot didn't even look at him, and practically flew from the ground to his saddle. His armor gleamed in the morning light, and to Jols eye he looked every bit the avenging madman he had gotten a reputation of being on the battlefield. Lancelot jammed the two blades he had been carrying into their scabbards on his back, the metal making a nasty snick sound that made the squires' blood run cold. He noticed the newly shined iron of the swords, and wondered if that was the only thing the other man had done before storming to the stables.

The knights' wounded wrists were wrapped with fresh bandages, but the left one was oozing through the white linen, staining it a light red. Jols opened his mouth to say something, but snapped it shut at the look on Lancelot's face.

"Your bags are packed with enough food for a few days, Sir," Jols told him, and he nodded a curt thanks.

"Do you know where-"

"I know."

And he thundered out of the building, calling for the guard to _open the gate if you want to live to see tomorrow._

The squire watched the knight leave, and shook his head. The best laid plans always seemed to go awry for Arthur; he only wanted to protect his friend, and instead succeeded in making him angrier than Jols had ever seen Lancelot.

"What will pass, will pass," Jols muttered, and went back to his task of grooming the remaining horses.

Lancelot hated to stop his breakneck journey, but he knew if he didn't, his horse wouldn't make it much further.

Sighing, he reigned up and let the animal walk a bit before feeding it a quick apple, and letting it drink from his water bag.

He poured a bit over his sweaty brow, and swore. His left hand was on fire, and the blood/pus combination seeping through the bandages was not a welcome sight or smell.

He was raging inside. How in the name of all that was holy did Arthur dare to leave him behind?

His friend. Drugged his drink, and left him. The captain of his guard. Left him behind! Lancelot had suffered worse injuries than his recent ones, and he couldn't understand Arthur's logic.

Lancelot's near death had been hard on Arthur, he knew. But he and Arthur had not spoken of it much, and if it truly bothered the king, wouldn't he have said something? Lancelot wasn't sure…but perhaps Arthur had lost trust in him. And there could only be one thing that would cause that.

"Blast it!" he yelled to the clouds, and a few angry crows took off from the nearby trees, their rest disturbed by his outburst.

"The reasoning must come from the horse's mouth," he muttered to himself, and remounted his ride.

The smell of smoke and burning flesh hit his nostrils as he crested the rise of a small hill at dawn the next morning.

He could do nothing but stare at the open field, the carnage sickening him, even with as much violence and death as he had seen and participated in before.

Arthur's banners fluttered limply in the wind, and he saw knights hurrying about the field, putting out fires and dragging the dead away.

He caught a glimpse of blue paint and brown leather, and closed his eyes in thanks that Guinevere still lived.

He spurred his horse, and galloped down through the wreckage.

"Lancelot?" the shout came from one of the tents set up to serve as a makeshift hospital, and he headed that way, seeing Bors standing outside, his bald head sliced in a half dozen places, and his arm in a sling.

"Bors, what the hell happened?" Lancelot asked, sliding off his horse as the animal came to a quick stop.

"Well…let's see. They had pitch and flaming arrows, and they made a bloody mess of us. That enough?" The other knight was obviously in a lot of pain, and angry to boot. Lancelot softened his tone, and looked Bors in the eyes.

"Bors. Where is Arthur?"

Bors sighed, letting his face fall. A strange feeling crawled its way through Lancelot's stomach; it was as if a large spider had settled there and had no intention of leaving.

"What, man? Out with it, for pity's sake," the younger knight said harshly, and Bors raised his head, his eyes narrowed.

Oh gods, oh no oh no not Arthur… "They've got him, Lancelot. He was ambushed by at least a dozen men, and we couldn't get to him for fear of them slitting his throat. Guinevere wanted to send a raiding party after him immediately, but some of us," he jerked his head toward Gawain and Galahad, who were bent over a table, studying maps, "helped her decide to make a little plan first." 

The world went white suddenly, and the young Sarmatian had to blink rapidly to clear his vision. _Should have been me._

He turned his head, and saw the queen glowering in the corner of the hospital tent, her eyes a bright grey, blood coating her small frame. He made to go to her, then turned back as Bors grabbed his arm. "For the record, I'm not a fan of what Arthur did to you…but I understand his action," the older knight told him. Lancelot shook his arm lose and snarled, "I'm the captain of his guard, Bors. I should have been here. If anyone could have helped him it would have been me. Should have been me. I'm supposed to lay down my life for him! Gods! The man is insufferable!" he yelled, and Bors laughed. Lancelot glowered at him, and the other man just grinned. "Don't try to scare me, boy. That gaze may work on the queen, but not on yours truly. And you don't get to hog all the guilt. Now lets figure out how to get Artorius back…alive."

Tbc.


	8. Chapter Eight

Night fell over the decimated battleground, and Lancelot found himself standing at the top of the hill he had ridden over earlier in the day.

He clenched his fists, an unconscious cry of pain escaping his lips. He lowered his gaze to look at his hand, and was shocked to see the amount of blood seeping through the bandages.

He sighed. Not now. Now was not the time for personal injury. Now was the time to put into action the plan he and the others had come up with.

"I knew you would follow us," Guinevere said in a soft voice, climbing the hill behind him. She had a stone jar and fresh linens in her hands. "I also knew you would not take care of your injuries, so let me see them. And no argument, or we will have a problem," she said, her voice like rock. He held out his hand, and as she treated it, she spoke.

"I tried to dissuade him, but he would not listen. I told him you would be furious, and that you may not forgive him for what he did. I have never seen him like that, Lancelot. He was absolutely adamant that you not be put into danger. I had no choice."

The Sarmatian man nodded, and thanked her briefly when she finished rewrapping his wrist.

He seated himself on a large fallen tree, and the queen joined him.

They listened to the sounds of the wounded, and slowly their fingers intertwined. Lancelot drew strength from her, and she from him.

"Do you think it will work?" she asked.

He shrugged. "It will work. I have no choice. I will retreive him, I swear it."

She squeezed his fingers gently. "I have no doubt. I cannot convince you to take more help?"

"You must stay here, in case this doesn't work. I need a second front. I trust you to be there if I should fall."

"You will not."

"Aye, lady."

They did not move for many hours, the rising moon and stars the only witness to their shared grief.

Before dawn, Bors, Lancelot, and Gawain were riding as swiftly as possible in the direction the Saxons had taken Arthur. They had no need to speak, and Bors led the way, having no trouble following the lines of broken tree branches and horse offal that the enemy had left behind in their haste to get away with their prize.

Lancelot knew that the remaining portion of their help followed silently, and did not feel the need to check their progress.

By midday they were coming upon new signs of life, and the three knights dismounted, leaving their horses tied to a copse of short bushes, reins losely looped for a quick getaway.

They crouched at the edge of the wood, and eyed the full clearing in front of them. A string of curses left Bors' mouth, and Gawain closed his eyes momentarily. Lancelot didn't move, just gripped his short dagger more tightly.

Arthur was bound in the middle of a pire, his hands twisted tightly by rough rope above his head. He was unconcious, his body weight held by his arms, his bare feet dragging off the edge of the pile of wood he was balanced on.

"Bloody sea devils, have they no respect at all?" Gawain muttered helplessly, and Bors spit on the ground.

"What do you think?" he responded, pointing at Arthur. Lancelot glared at the both of them, and they quieted.

"Look," he said suddenly, and the three men watched as what was obviously the leader of this particular group of Saxons strode into the main area of the camp, and reached up to slap Arthur's face. Lancelot had to restrain Bors as Arthur's head jerked, and his green eyes opened.

"Well, commander, how are we this day? Ready to die?" the blond man said, his lieutenants laughing around him.

Lancelot smiled grimly at the regal bearing Arthur had, even while shirtless and barefoot, bloody and bound.

"I am always ready to die for my men and my country," he spat at the man, defiance glittering in his gaze.

"Good. Where my brothers failed to take you before, I will succeed. Rest assured of that. Aerin!" he called, and a flame haired young man scurried to him.

"Sir!" the man said, and saluted briefly.

"Ready this heathen bastard for a king's death."

"Yes, sir," Aerin replied, and barked out orders to the men standing about him. They raced back to a large tent set up at the opposite edge of the clearing from where the knights kept their watch.

"Lancelot?" Gawain queired under his breath. The other man looked over at him.

"Distraction ready?" he asked. Gawain nodded, and grinned. Bors unsheathed his long sword, and Gawain his wickedly sharp axe.

"Good luck, gentleman," Lancelot told them. "I shall be along presently."

As the two crept away to rendevouz with the 'help,' Lancelot drew one of his double blades and checked the sharpness of it against his thumb. As the small dot of blood welled, he put the wound to his lips and sucked on it, watching Arthur intently for any signs of problems he had not anticipated.

He could not help a laugh as Bors and Gawain burst through the trees at a 45 degree angle from him, crying and whinging wildly.

The men guarding Arthur and the remaining Saxons reacted to the interruption as ants in a nest when stepped on.

Bors and Gawain, acting afraid to the best of their abilities, threw themselves to their knees, their hands clasped and shaking.

When the Saxon leader finally appeared, screaming at the top of his lungs for order, he stopped in front of the two knights, his arms crossed across his broad chest.

Lancelot watched Arthur, but the king showed no sign of recognition at the sight of his men. He was either very good at playing along, or too injured to realize who they were. Lancelot hoped it was the former.

"What is the meaning of this??? Who are you men?" the blond man yelled at the knights, and they quaked further. Lancelot hid a smile, and leaned forward slightly to watch the procedings.

"Please sir, me and my squire here," Bors pointed at Gawain, who growled at Bors before shifting back into character, "we were set upon by blue devils who robbed us of all our goods and horses. We saw your camp fires, and hoped you would be kind enough to aid us. We have nothing left sir, nothing!"

Bors was really playing it to the hilt. Lancelot had a moment of glee where he thought Bors had truly missed his calling in life, then shifted focus, ready to move the second the other showed their faces.

"We have no time for this, don't you see we are in the middle of something important?" the commander roared, and at this Bors and Gawain surged to their feet, looking curiously at Arthur, who was still eyeing them, but not saying anything.

"Oh, my…Sammy, is that the King??" Bors said incredulously to Gawain, who nodded. "I think it is, Benny."

"What, have you captured the king??? My goodness, what a feat! Sammy, get over here and look at him. Why, he's no god, he's just a man…a man who needs new trousers," Bors said in a high voice, waving excitedly. Lancelot crouched on the balls of his feet; the next phase of the plan was ready.

As the Saxons attempted to pull the newcomers away from the captured Arthur, a loud whoop sounded from the trees, and multiplied in volume times several dozen.

The blue painted Woads, having followed the three knights by order of Guinevere, broke from their cover and with their usual fury let the Saxons have it.

As soon as they appeared, the blond commander, trying not to give in to panic, shouted at four men to guard Arthur and threw himself into the fray.

A Woad woman tossed Gawain and Bors their weapons. They grinned at each other, and began to fight back to back, each protecting the other.

As soon as the enemy leader was away from Arthur, Lancelot launched himself from his hiding place and whirled down upon the four men guarding the king.

His vision tinged with red, he didn't even feel the pain in his injured wrist as he wielded his two swords like Zeus hurling thunderbolts.

His sight shrank to a pinprick, and in the center of it were the green eyes of Arthur, who had struggled to an upright position at the sight of Lancelot bearing down on him.

One of the guards hacked at the knight with his own sword, and Lancelot grinned. A few strokes later the Saxon's head was on the ground, and the Sarmatian's face was coated in blood. He screamed at the top of his lungs, battle fury and rage filling him, and fought as he had never done so before.

Thrust, dodge. Spin, flip, stab. Kick, duck, slice.

Arthur squinted, the sun reflecting off his knight's weaponry blinding him momentarily, but not too long for him to see the man creeping up on Lancelot and aiming a bow at his back.

"Lancelot!" he shrieked with all his might, and the knight spun, one enemy sword flying over his head in an arc, the loosed bolt from the archer hitting home- except it killed the wrong man.

Lancelot flashed white teeth at Arthur, who sagged in relief. A moment later the knight was at his side, one blade sheathed, the other cutting through his bonds while the battle raged fiercely around them.

Catching Arthur as he fell, Lancelot threw his arm around the king's shoulders, supporting his weight.

"I…I knew- knew you would come," Arthur slurred, his mouth swollen from being hit repeatedly. He tried to grin at the other man, but could only manage a half smile.

"Always, Arthur. Now, let's get the hell out of here," Lancelot responded, and hobbled down through the wood making up the pire.

Catching the eye of Bors, Lancelot pointed toward the forest, and the older knight nodded.

Hurrying through the foliage, Lancelot arrived with the king at the tethered horses, and mounted his quickly, Arthur getting up behind him, collapsing his weight against the other man's back.

"Yah!" Lancelot shouted, and dug his booted feet into his horses sides, and they were off.

The knight knew that Bors and Gawain would follow as quickly as they could, after decimating the Saxon camp as much as possible. With the battle ready Woads with them, he knew it wouldn't take long.

Tbc.


	9. Chapter Nine

The rain fell steadily, soaking all who were unfortunate enough to be out in the elements.

With the setting of the sun, the last warmth of the day had also disappeared, and the people and the knights who were lucky enough to have not gotten injured were bearing the chill with as much cheer as possible.

Lancelot stood outside the main tent of the encampment, listening as a Woad healer spoke with Guinevere after seeing to Arthur.

He sighed when he heard the man tell the queen Arthur was out of danger, but needed to get back to the Wall as soon as possible. His shoulders sunk back to their normal position, and he let a large tension filled breath whoosh out of his lips.

The torches that lit the camp sputtered in the wetness, and Lancelot could barely see Bors as the man walked to up to him, and handed him a mug of hot wine.

"How is he?" Bors asked.

"He'll live, but he has to get back to safety soon," Lancelot replied. He sipped at his drink, grateful for the heat and shivered slightly as it made it's way down his throat.

"Thank the gods. I'd hate to think I made an ass of meself for no reason," the other man laughed, and chugged his wine.

"I'm going to tell the others," Bors added, and began to leave. He hesitated, then turned back to the tall, thin knight still standing in the rain.

"You all right, boy?" he said, and Lancelot smiled at the usage of 'boy'. He hadn't been a boy for a very long time. Not since the first night he had spent in Britain.

"Aye. Go impart our good news to the others, Bors. I will see you in the morning; I would hope to be included in the group carrying Arthur back to the wall, considering I'm the captain of his guard."

"Drink up, Lancelot," Bors said as he walked off, "and this time it's safe!"

The dark haired knight just shook his head as Bors headed off in the direction of the horse enclosure, laughing loudly.

They made record time back to the Wall. Arthur slept most of the way, his injuries not life threatening, but bad enough to warrant haste.

Lancelot provided the best guard Arthur had ever had, and woe to anyone who tried to approach the litter on which the king was borne.

The second the wall came into view, Lancelot spurred his horse on, waving at the gate sentry, who had the large wooden structure open almost before the captain of the guard gave the order.

The king was carried hastily to his chambers, and was closeted in with Guinevere and the healer who was based at the fortress.

Lancelot waited outside, his helmet under his arm, his swords still sheathed on his back. His battle armor had not been removed since rescuing Arthur, and he realized suddenly how exhausted he was.

Sitting heavily on a chair in the long hall, he crossed his arms over the helmet in his lap, and shut his eyes.

He had intended to rest for only a moment, but when he was shaken awake by a sentry, evening had come.

"The King is asking for you, Sir," the boy said, and Lancelot stood.

"I'll be right there," he told the lad, and shook himself, ran tired hands over his face and hair, and plastered a smile on his face.

He entered the king's rooms, and was immediately struck by the smell of thick sage incense.

He coughed politely, and Guinevere, who was sitting at Arthur's bedside with her back to the door, turned and smiled at the sight of him.

"Lancelot," she said, "you have my eternal gratitude." She stood, and took his hands in hers. He couldn't help but notice that they shook slightly at the contact.

She leaned in to him, and touched her lips to his cheek. He wanted to weep at the closeness, but instead breathed in steadily, memorizing the scent of flowers and musk that surrounded her. She was a woman, but also a warrior. That was part of what attracted him to her in the first place.

She pulled away after a long moment, and his heart ached at the tears hanging unshed in her eyes. He knew that for the sake of Arthur, and for the sake of their sanity, he would not see her like he wanted to again.

"I would do anything for you or the king, majesty. You have my promise on that."

Her eyes widened slightly at the formality of his words, but she nodded her head.

"I will leave you with Arthur…but don't stay too long," she added, heading to the door.

"Aye, my lady," Lancelot said, and made a swift bow to her. Their gazes locked for one brief moment, but she broke the spell, exiting quickly.

The Sarmatian hung his head, allowing for just minute the weight of all that had transpired in the past week roll over him like a wave, and he quavered slightly.

"Lancelot?" came Arthur's voice, soft in the gloom of dusk.

The knight made his way to the king's bedside, and sat there, smiling at his friend. They clasped hands in the old way, forearm to forearm.

"I am sorry," Arthur began, but Lancelot just shook his head, his dark hair falling into his eyes.

"No need, Arthur. Having some distance from it…I understand your reasoning. It doesn't mean I have to like it. I'm the captain of your guard, man. How can I protect you if I'm not there?"

He hadn't meant to just spout it out, but there it was. Arthur sighed, and looked away, letting go of Lancelot's hand. "I could not see you hurt again. Or dead. It was an idiotic thing to do, but I was out of time. I am truly sorry. We have dealt with so much loss, Lancelot. I couldn't see being the cause of more."

"Arthur, I accepted the position of your captain with full knowledge of what could happen to me. How is that any different than fighting by your side for Rome?"

"Because you have a choice!" Arthur answered vehemently. "You didn't then. Neither did Dagonet, or Tristan. And they lost their lives for me. I knew the outcome of the battle was very well the loss of a heavy amount of guard…and I just couldn't risk it. You had been so recently injured, I thought it best if you didn't go. Please forgive me."

Lancelot just stared at him, opening his mouth. What came out was not what he expected, nor wanted.

"I love the queen."

He forced himself to stay seated, not allowing himself to get up and pace away from Arthur. That would be the easy way out. He met Arthur's green gaze, and held it.

"I know," was how Arthur answered. Not angrily, not surprisedly, just with a resignedness that made Lancelot's insides twinge. The plain statements hung there between the two men, filling the room with their honesty so that Lancelot thought his head might burst.

"Arthur…why have you not said anything to me?" he asked finally. The king smiled.

"Because I understand why. I love her too, you know. It's impossible not to. And I love you…and couldn't bear to step between you. I thought that no matter what I did, or said, it would come out in such a way that you would blame yourself or think I mistrusted you. You are my lifelong friend, and my brother. I could never hold you responsible for something you could not help."

The Sarmatian's mouth flopped like a fish on land; he was thunderstruck.

He worried his lip between his teeth, his mind trying to wrap itself around the concept that the king had known and had not said anything. And more than that, had condoned it.

"I…Gods, Arthur. How can you forgive me? How can you trust me? I touched your wife, and more than that, I did it behind your back! I betrayed you! Me! The one who knows you best of all…I had no backbone to tell you, or to just leave. It would have been better that way," Lancelot said, tears of shame and rage burning his eyes and throat.

He stood, and ignored the pleading gesture Arthur gave with his hand. He was too wrapped up in his own misery now, and was damned if he was going to let Arthur forgive him, not when he couldn't do it himself.

The man was intolerably noble. And it would be the death of him if he didn't be careful.

"Lancelot, please. Don't kill yourself over this. I can forgive you because I understand it. I would love her if any man had her…including you. I know you didn't mean me any harm. I thought that it would flame out eventually, but I was waiting to mention it to you…when the right moment hit me," Arthur said, his face reddening. Lancelot thought he was the only man he knew who wouldn't see it as a cuckolding. And damn his honor and loyalty. Lancelot detested himself. He needed Arthur to be angry…and he wasn't. And Lancelot didn't know how to respond to that.

He sat abruptly on a chair across from the bed, and looked at his friend. Really looked at him.

He saw a man who, despite his physical weaknesses, sat unaided, and radiated strength from every molecule of his being. His brow was clear, his eyes unclouded, and his face unmarked by indecision.

It was infuriating. Lancelot growled suddenly, and leap up.

"I have to go, Arthur….I'm sorry, I just, I can't. Not now…"

He waved a hand vaguely in the air, his wounded wrists throbbing in time with his heart. His internal dialog was fighting itself- stay, go, stay, go.

The king nodded, knowing his friend was torn inside. "Please, return when you can, brother, I would take offense if you didn't come to distract me while I heal," Arthur tried to make light of the situation, but Lancelot didn't look at him. He made a short bow in Arthur's direction, and let the door shut behind him.

Arthur sighed, and layed his head back against the pillow. He inhaled the scent of Guinevere from the pillow, and clenched his hands. He did understand his friend's love, he did. But it did not make it any easier to bear. Guinevere was his wife, and queen. His captain by all rights should be banished from the fortress, or at the worst hung for treason.

But Arthur couldn't even contemplate that. He squeezed his eyes shut, and drove the thoughts from his mind.

He knew he should be angry, or betrayed, or shocked. But despite what he knew, he wasn't any of those things. He wasn't that type of man…which might one day come back to haunt him.

The king tried to rest, and to forget the haunted expression on Lancelot's face when he discovered Arthur had known of his feelings for Guinevere.

He was sure to be harder on himself than any punishment the law said he deserved.

Tbc.


	10. Chapter Ten

"Blast!" he raged to the empty hall.

"Bloody hell stupid nobility…" the Sarmatian knight muttered as he hurried through the corridors of the keep and out onto the long brick walk that led around the fortress.

The parapet towers were blessedly only staffed with one guard at the moment, and Lancelot shooed the young man away, who was happy to get the night off with blessings from his captain.

"Gods!" the knight roared at the sky, and sat down heavily, his head falling into his hands. How had Arthur known? And how had he not said anything? If anything, Lancelot should be in irons right about now. Instead, Arthur was asking his forgiveness?

Lancelot's world was as twisted as the Castus banner that hung from the wall, and he moaned briefly before squaring his shoulders. It wasn't seemly to be so distracted by one's own problems. He knew what he must do…he just didn't want to do it.

It meant leaving his friends, his calling, and more importantly, his home. His soul's home. Which was with Arthur and Guinevere. Yes, with her as well. As much as he loved her as a man, he also loved her as his queen, and the thought of leaving her side to be possibly undefended tore at him.

And to leave Arthur again…it was too much to contemplate.

He shuddered briefly, and wished ashamedly for the simplicity of the past, when he had had no choice and had followed Arthur and his fellow knights into whatever hell that Rome had sent them to.

Night had fallen briskly and he stood on the edge of the parapet, the wind blowing his hair about his head. Things were quiet, and the hustle and bustle that was always heard in a fortress as large as theirs gradually died off. Lancelot hadn't realized how long he had been outside until the moon was almost directly overhead, and his stomach growled loudly.

He shook his head to clear it; hours of thinking had produced no easy solutions, and he was weary.

Turning to go inside, he froze suddenly. A strange feeling of being watched tickled his spine, and he spun back around just in time to feel the arrow whistling at him embed itself into his thigh.

Howling in pain, he reached for his swords, then cursed himself for leaving them behind.

He yanked the small dirk he always carried free from his boot, and launched himself at the dark figure that had just boosted itself over the edge of the wall.

They went down in a tangle of limbs, Lancelot fighting like a wildcat, but his injured wrists would not answer to his demands, and rather quickly he was subdued by the other man, who's lower face was covered by a tattered black sash.

The Sarmatian knight bit and kicked as his knife was taken away, and spit at the face of his attacker as three other men made their way silently to the side of the one sitting astride his chest.

"If you value the life of your king, I would suggest shutting the hell up," the man said in a pleasant tone, almost as if they were having a conversation in front of a tavern fire. Lancelot snapped his jaw shut, and glared daggers at the man. His thigh throbbed, and he could feel blood leaking out of it sluggishly. He kicked at his jailer one more time, then fell still as the man struck him across the jaw.

"Always a fighter. You could have picked an easier one to ambush, Donnell," the man seated on Lancelot said to one of the others behind him. In unison they pulled their face coverings off, and Lancelot bit off a curse as he recognized some of the Saxons from the battle earlier.

"But not a more loyal one," the man called Donnell replied. "He will do what we ask in regards to Arthur, make no mistake. Speaking of, I think it's time we visited said king."

Lancelot marched stiffly beside the men sneaking into the fortress. They hid behind some columns as serving women approached, then hustled him back into the corridor as the women's voices faded into the distance.

He tried desperately to think of any other way to warn the king, to warn anyone that death was coming for Arthur on swift, vengeful wings, but short of getting himself killed, _which wouldn't do any good just yet, _his mind could come up with nothing.

The men that led him were quiet, and obviously scouts or spies of some kind, because they were too good, and too silent to be foot soldiers. Lancelot tried to trip them up once, and was rewarded for his efforts with a swift clout across the ear that made his vision swim and his nose drip blood. That made him slightly nervous; how hard had they hit him before? His thigh had stopped bleeding, but the arrow was still there, and he knew it would flow again once the offending piece of wood was removed.

They approached the king's chambers at last, and Lancelot decided that he was close enough now to risk trying to warn Arthur.

His plan died in his throat when the door was answered after a short two knocks by another Saxon, this one holding Guinevere by the hair, a silver dagger at her throat. They had cut her already, and he felt a surge of violence race through him at the sight of her blood trickling down her neck into the edge of her bodice.

"Mmmmff!" was all she got out when she saw Lancelot. He succeeded in elbowing the man holding him, and reached for her. He saw that Arthur was still asleep, perhaps drugged into oblivion by the healer, and the room seemed filled with silent, angry sea devils, ready to butcher his king for whatever reasons they had.

He didn't care what their reasons were, he only cared to save Arthur from a fate that should have been his in that battle a year ago on Badon Hill.

He fell to one knee when Donnell cut his thigh with his own dirk, and tried to cover the sound of pain with a laugh.

"That..the best you can do? You can't even kidnap a king with less than ten men?"

Donnell kicked him in the ass with a booted foot, and he fell onto his face at Guinevere's feet. She gasped once, her eyes filled with outraged fire and damnation. Lancelot almost pittied the Saxon who met the end of her sword. Almost.

"You don't want to see my best. Michael, get the king from his bed and lets go. Tie these two like the turkeys they are."

At that moment Lancelot knew they had a chance. The idiot marauders should have just killed Arthur right then, he knew were it him he would have done so. A long, drawn out vengeance never turned out right. Something always threw a tool in the works, and he was determined to be that tool.

One of the younger Saxons came toward Guinevere and Lancelot, and pushed them together with his feet, trying to get them close enough to tie with just one rope.

The man bent over, slightly off balance, and at that second both he and Guinevere began to work like a well oiled machine.

Time slowed for him, even though what took place happened in seconds; it seemed like hours to his eye.

He and the queen used the touch of each other's backs to leap up, she grabbing a sword hidden behind an overturned trestle table, he kicking the Saxon in the crotch. When the man dropped his blade, retching in pain, Lancelot turned it on its owner, a red tide flowing from the man's throat in seconds.

The two of them fought together, using glances and a few grunts to communicate.

Snick.

Hack.

Slash, duck, roll.

Lancelot paused only once, when he was standing on the edge of the window in Arthur's room, and yanked the arrow out of his thigh. A brief, high pitched scream, then he snapped his mouth shut. He shot a quick glance at Arthur, who was struggling unnoticed to wake from his medicine induced slumber, surprise in his green eyes. That expression quickly turned to murder when he saw his queen and best friend being outnumbered by Saxons.

"Guinevere!" Arthur yelled, and Lancelot shut his eyes briefly against the pain in that voice. The king struggled out of bed, tangled in his linens, and raised Excalibur high. Lancelot understood then how little the Saxons actually knew about the king; he was never far from the legendary blade, and many men paid for that knowledge that night.

The queen was holding her own, her warrior's spirit in evidence as she stabbed the man behind her, then rolled over his back, swinging her blade swiftly.

The sound of the Saxon's head hitting the floor was a welcome one.

Arthur had managed to get free of his bedclothes, and fought his way to the center of the room, blood flying from Excalibur's shining length.

Lancelot slashed with his borrowed sword, spinning like a dervish, only feeling a slight fire against his ribs once. All else was a blur.

A moment later, and it was done.

Lancelot, Guinevere and Arthur stood in a small circle, their backs touching, all breathing heavily. It took them a few seconds to realize that all of the invaders were dead.

Arthur laughed, a dry noise that sounded like a bark, and faltered to his knees.

"Arthur," the queen and the knight breathed, and both dropped to their own knees beside the man.

"Help me get him to the bed, Lancelot," Guinevere said, and he complied, Arthur protesting weakly between them that he could get there just fine on his own.

By this time running sounds could be heard in the halls, and Arthur's door burst open, Gawain, Galahad and Bors making their way in, armed to the teeth.

"What in the world?" Galahad got out, but Bors and Gawain were already at the king's bedside.

"Do we have a problem?" Bors said, eyeing the dead bodies scattered around the room. Arthur snorted weakly. "Not anymore, my friend. Apparently I sleep like the dead, at least when drugged," he said, embarassment and anger coloring his pale face, "and would be just that were it not for these two." He grasped Guinevere's hand, and brought it to his lips.

"I am in your debt, my queen," he said softly, and she brushed the errant locks of hair out of his face.

"Not in this lifetime," she answered, and pressed her lips to his forehead. Her eyes avoided Lancelot's, who gazed at her so strangely she was momentarily afraid of him.

"Ah, my fair Sarmatian savior once again," Arthur joked, turning to his friend. Alarm crossed his features. "Lancelot?" he queried, touching the man's cheek.

"I..ah, suddenly do not feel very much myself," Lancelot said, his vision of Arthur and Guinevere doubling. "Forgive me."

The last thing he heard was the sound of rushing feet and Bors yelling "catch him!"

The bright light of the torches in the corridor wavered, and twisted into coils of flame as his head hit the solid brick ground.

When he awoke, Lancelot knew that this time, it was different. There were people in his quarters, but they were being careful to be very quiet, and the smell of incense was strong in his nostrils.

He tried to raise his head, and hissed as the world tilted on its axis.

"Stop moving, fool. You'll hurt yourself again, and then what would I do?"

He tried to smile at Arthur's comment, but found his face wouldn't work.

"What –" he croaked, then coughed. A thin trickle of water was poured down his throat, and he licked his dry lips, sighing.

"What is happening?" he finally managed.

"You have been fighting fever for several days now, friend," Arthur told him. Lancelot knew it was Arthur because he recognized the man's smell. He was dismayed to discover he couldn't see very well.

"What's wrong with my eyes?"

"I don't know – can you not see well? Guard, some light here!"

A faceless clanking, then a torch was brought to Arthur. He held it close to Lancelot, and suddenly the knight could see the king's face a little better.

"Better?" Arthur asked. Lancelot nodded.

"Aye. How are you feeling?"

Arthur laughed, a slightly hysterical sound that worried the Sarmatian man.

"You should not trouble yourself about me; thanks to you, again, I am well. You need to conserve your strength. You have a lot of healing to do, brother."

"The arrow wasn't in deep, it shouldn't have done that much damage," Lancelot said, confused. He lifted his left hand to brush at his hair. The room swam; the light that Arthur held whirled and spun enough to make him roll to his side and retch.

Arthur just held his shoulder silently. When he rolled back over, moaning and sweating, the king's face crumpled, and he put the torch into the wall sconce behind him.

"They had to take it, Lancelot. You were going black almost to your forearm, the woad healer knew it would soon take your heart. I'm so very sorry, my friend."

Lancelot turned his eyes to the right, where his swords rested in their special sheaths, handcrafted for him by a blacksmith attached to the fortress many years ago.

"I..oh, gods," was all he could manage, and he lifted his hand – no, the stump of his hand, to the light again.

They had obviously cauterized the wound, because he could still almost smell the charred meat stink coming off it. He tried not to vomit again, but did not succeed.

This time Arthur rose, and came back to the bed with a goblet of something that smelled like flowers and honey.

"Drink this," he said, and Lancelot complied. Surprisingly, it wasn't bad, and he drained it quickly.

Laying his head back, he shut his eyes.

"The queen?" he asked after a moment.

"She is well, and seeing to your recovery," Arthur stated. Lancelot was afraid to meet his eyes, but did so.

Nothing but kindness and worry there. And the Sarmatian man hated himself more for it.

"Arthur, I – we need to discuss…"

"Not now. What is done is done. There is nothing that we can say that would help, and I for one am ready to put aside anything that doesn't help me or my country. Do you agree?"

"Aye, my lord," Lancelot said, his mind reeling from the admission. How could Arthur forgive him so easily? Did he not know how seriously Lancelot had considered running with Guinevere? Had the queen discussed it with him? He had to know.

"Arthur, please, I have to know one thing," he added quietly. The king just looked at him, and Lancelot unconciously dragged his injured wrist closer to his chest.

"Has she…has the queen talked with you…about my…indiscretion?"

"She has. And I am satisfied. Lancelot, I need you to look at me."

And he did so.

"I understand. I love her too. I will not have you punish yourself for something I would have done myself. And this is the last we will speak on it. I love you as well, and want for nothing except for you to get well. Do you hear me, knight?"

"I hear you, brother," Lancelot answered, but a chill echoed across his heart. He had been wounded before. This was different. It was different than the time on the Hill. His vision was spotty, his stomach weak, his bones achy. The slash on his side burned like glass had been ground into it, and he was both freezing and wet with sweat.

He would never tell Arthur this, however. The man had far more important things to do, like hunting down the remainder of the raiding party that had ambushed himself and the queen in his own fortress. Lancelot knew questioning would have to commence; as much as he hated to think it, there had to be a traitor among them somewhere. And Arthur would find him. Simple as that.

"I am…tired, Arthur. I would like to rest, if you don't mind?"

Arthur jumped up at once, apologetic. "I shall let you rest, then. Call if you have need of me. I shall be right outside."

Lancelot smiled in what he hoped was the direction of his friends face; without the direct illumination of the torch he couldn't make out features very well.

"Sleep well, Lancelot," Arthur added, and touched his hand softly. Lancelot choked back a moan; instead, he nodded, and waited until he heard the door swing shut before allowing the tears to come.

The next time he awoke, he was aware of more light and more people, but the vision was so blurry this time he couldn't tell who it was around him until they spoke.

"Lancelot," Guinevere said, and he could tell from her tone that she knew what was happening to him.

"My lady," he answered in a voice rough with disuse. At her nod, the other people in the room left silently, allowing them some time alone.

She eased him to a sitting position, wincing inwardly when he groaned briefly as her hand accidentally touched his side.

"I'm sorry," she said, and he fluttered his right hand at her.

"Aren't you going to ask me how I'm feeling?" he said finally, a joke in his tone. She didn't laugh.

He sighed resignedly. "How is Arthur?"

"He is run ragged with worry. You must recover, if only for his sake," she snapped, the fear and anger in her voice coming across overtly. She sighed as well, and took his right hand in hers. Stroking the knuckles gently, she leaned forward until her forhead touched his chest. He raised his left arm, and placed it over her shoulders, ignoring the shoot of pain that came from the contact with his wrist.

"Why?" she said brokenly, and his brown eyes clenched shut.

"How long had he known?" she added, and Lancelot shook his head.

"I wish I knew, lady. I think we could have spared him an inordinate amount of pain."

"His nobility and morals will be the death of him," Guinevere said. The knight could only agree.

"He is a better man than I," Lancelot said, and she turned her face so it was resting against his heart.

They lay together like that until the moon was high in the sky, neither speaking again.

Chill nipped in the air, and Lancelot knew that winter was coming.

With the little strength that was left in him, he levered himself out of the bed, and sat in the window that looked over the fortress. If he squinted he could see Badon Hill and the cemetary there. Well, not really see it, but he didn't need to see it physically. It was burned into his brain.

This is where Arthur found him a few hours later, his skin clammy and cold, and his breath wheezing in his chest. The skin of his face was pink with fever, and beads of sweat ran like liquid diamonds down his cheeks.

"Do you ever wonder, Arthur, what would have happened had Dagonet lived? Had we not come back to you that day on the Hill? What then? Would you still be here? Or would you be mouldering in the ground next to your father – or in Rome?"

"Hush, Lancelot," was all Arthur said, carrying his friend back to the bed. He wrapped the knight up securely in the linens, then stoked the fire burning in the grate.

"I often wonder if you knew just how much we all loved you that day…your eyes like burnished coals, gods, look at you in that armor! And the standards flying in the wind…"

Arthur wiped the moisture off his face that had begun to fall from his eyes. He turned back to Lancelot, smiling brightly.

"Now I know you're getting better, you're becoming melancholic."

"Don't, Arthur. I know my journey is ending. The clearing at the end of the path looks brigher every day," the knight said, a cough wracking his whip thin frame. The infection had never let go of him, and it had eaten away at his body as surely as it had his mind.

Arthur sat at the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle him or touch the stump of his left hand. He took Lancelot's right hand in his own, and squeezed it gently.

"My swords…would you get them, please?"

The voice that came out of Lancelot's throat made Arthur's chest constrict. It was that of a little boy.

He brought the double blades to the bed, and lay them within the other man's reach.

Lancelot ran his hand lightly over them, and smiled.

"They are yours now. Use them wisely; they don't like being sheathed for long."

"You shall use them again, brother, and soon."

"In another time, perhaps," Lancelot mused, his face taking on a faraway expression the king did not like.

"Lancelot?" he asked.

"Do you remember the favor I asked you to grant me?"

Arthur knew what favor the knight was referring to, but chose not to answer.

"An east wind, Arthur. Do this, and I will be forever in your debt."

The king smiled back at his best friend and boon companion of sixteen long years, and crossed his right fist to his heart.

"Aye, my friend. It will be done."

Lancelot relaxed back against the wall, and closed his eyes.

The king stayed with him until he slipped away, holding his hand, not saying a word.

When Gawain came to relieve him, the king stood, and said naught. Gawain's face fell at the sight of the linen covered body, and he moved aside for Arthur to pass.

"Arthur?" Gawain finally voiced when his king had made no move to exit.

"I am…sorry, Gawain. I just…should I leave him in the dark, alone?"

Gawain's heart fell into his stomach at the words, but he clapped Arthur on the shoulder.

"I will stay with him, Arthur. Find Guinevere. And God go with you," he added as Arthur moved off stiffly down the corridor.

Gawain sat in the window, where Lancelot had spent his last day. He thought back on the years he and the others had spent together, and all that they had lost.

He thought of Dagonet, and Tristan, and finally this last one, perhaps the best of all of them.

"See him home," he whispered into the dark. He hoped someone heard.

Epilogue to come.


	11. Epilogue

Epilogue.

The bonfires raged on the hillside, and people milled about, drinking and laughing.

Arthur sat quietly on top of one of the stone cairns that had been there since before his coming, and he was quite sure they would be there long after he was gone.

He smiled as Bors and Vanora danced to the tune some minstrels played, or rather, as Vanora danced and Bors shuffled drunkenly around her.

The light of the fires played across his features, and he ran a hand through his thick dark hair. The turmoil of the last year featured brightly in his mind, but rather than push it away, he welcomed the thoughts as old friends.

That's what a wake was for, after all.

And it was a hell of a wake. Lancelot would have been proud.

Arthur's hand trembled slightly around the lion pendant he held, but he forced himself to picture his friend's face, his wide brown eyes, sparkling with mirth, his strong jaw and barking laugh. He remembered how the corner of Lancelot's mouth would quirk at any joke, even if it was a bad one.

_There is too little humor in this place, Arthur. I cannot discourage even the worst of it._

The queen was suddenly next to him, and he pulled her into his arms, settling her there next to him on the large stone seat. She sighed, and relaxed into the crook of his neck.

They would have no words about her actions. He knew she was half destroyed by what had happened, and he would no more cause her additional pain than cut out his own heart.

When he had forgiven Lancelot, he had been being honest. He understood. She was Guinevere, after all. No other explanation was needed in his eyes.

At dawn that morning, Arthur alone had come to this same hillside with a small stone jar. The sea air had been bitter in his mouth, and his soul had recoiled at the act he was about to commit, but he would not betray the last request of his friend.

As the sun had crested the horizon, the ashes had been cast, the east wind strong in the new light. Arthur had held aloft the twin swords that had belonged to his brother, and in a strangled voice had cried Lancelot's name to the sky. God would know of him, and would welcome him home.

He replaced the pendant in his pocket, fingering the other small charm there. A cross. One he would keep, as a reminder of just who he was, and the sacrifces others had made for him. It would be enough to help him never forget all of their faces.

"Arthur?" the queen murmured into his shoulder. He looked down at her, his green eyes meeting her gray ones with all the love in his being.

"Guinevere," he answered, making it a statement.

"I feel I should have pretty words for this night, but I find that power fails me," she said at last, sorrow pulling her shoulders down. He touched her cheek with his finger, following the line of her bones. He pressed his lips to her forehead, and pulled away with the hint of moisture in his eyes.

"Memories aren't made better or worse by beauty, my love," he replied. "They are dear to us, just the same."

She nodded, and rested with him again.

They watched as the people of the fortress drank, and danced, and ate, and remembered.

The sky was a blistering, exquisite blanket of stars, and reflected the flames burning there back into the hearts of all who were present.

Fin.

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Authors note:

My hearty thanks to everyone who stuck with me to the bitter end. I have enjoyed this story a ton and hope to write more in the KA verse soon…hopefully this time a tad more happy. ;)

Thanks especially are due to: Melissa (M), Kaarlo and Marie for the reviews and support. You guys rock. And thankee sai kindly to every person who read this and took the time to review it. You are my reason for writing! J


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